LIBRARY 

OF   THE 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA.  | 

I 


GIFT  OF 

GEORGE  MOREY  RICHARDSON. 

Received,  ^August,  1898. 
^Accession  No.  /  J  //  0  7     Class  No. 


In  the  Wilderness. 


CHARLES  DUDLEY  WARNER, 

AUTHOR   OF    "MY    SUMMER   IN   A  GARDEN,"   "BACKLOG   STUDIES, 
"  SAUNTER1NGS,"   ETC. 


BOSTON: 
HOUGHTON,   OSGOOD    AND    COMPANY. 

$Jrcss,  Cambridge. 
1878. 


COPYRIGHT,  1878, 
BY  CHARLES  DUDLEY  WARNER. 


Franklin  Press: 

Stereotyped  and  Printed  by 

Rand,  A  very,  &•  Co., 

Boston. 


CONTENTS. 


IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

I.     HOW  I  KILLED  A   BEAU         .....       5 

n.    LOST  IN  THE  WOODS        .....       21 

III.  A  FIGHT  WITH  A  TROUT     .       *       ...    41 

IV.  A-HUNTING  OF  THE  DEER         ....          54 

V.    A  CHARACTER  STUDY  ......    82 

VI.    CAMPING  OUT  .  .....       124 

HOW  SPRING  CAME  IN  NEW  ENGLAND  .        .  147 
74.    How  SPRING  CAME  IN  NEW  ENGLAND.    BY 
A  READER  OF  '"93  "   .....       149 

3 


IN  THE  WILDEKNESS. 
i. 

ROW   I    KILLED    A    BEAR. 

]O  many  conflicting  accounts  have  ap 
peared  about  m}r  casual  encounter  with 
an  Adirondack  bear  last  summer,  that 
in  justice  to  the  public,  to  myself,  and  to  the 
bear,  it  is  necessaiy  to  make  a  plain  statement 
of  the  facts.  Besides,  it  is  so  seldom  I  have 
occasion  to  kill  a  bear,  that  the  celebration  of 
the  exploit  may  be  excused. 

The  encounter  was  unpremeditated  on  both 
sides.  I  was  not  hunting  for  a  bear,  and  I 
have  no  reason  to  suppose  that  a  bear  was  look 
ing  for  me.  The  fact  is,  that  we  were  both  out 
blackberrying,  and  met  by  chance, — the  usual 
way.  There  is  among  the  Adirondack  visitors 


IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 


always  a  great  deal  of  conversation  about  bears, 
—  a  general  expression  of  the  wish  to  see  one  in 
the  woods,  and  much  speculation  as  to  how  a 
person  would  act  if  he  or  she  chanced  to  meet 
one.  But  bears  are  scarce  and  timid,  and  ap 
pear  only  to  a  favored  few. 

It  was  a  warm  day  in  August,  just  the  sort 
of  da}r  when  an  adventure  of  an}r  kind  seemed 
impossible.  But  it  occurred  to  the  housekeepers 
at  our  cottage  —  there  were  four  of  them  —  to 
send  me  to  the  clearing,  on  the  mountain  back 
of  the  house,  to  pick  blackberries.  It  was  rather 
a  series  of  small  clearings,  running  up  into  the 
forest,  much  overgrown  with  bushes  and  briers, 
and  not  unromantic.  Cows  pastured  there,  pene 
trating  through  the  leaf}*  passages  from  one  open 
ing  to  another,  and  browsing  among  the  bushes. 
I  was  kindly  furnished  with  a  six-quart  pail,  and 
told  not  to  be  gone  long. 

Not  from  any  predatory  instinct,  but  to  save 
appearances,  I  took  a  gun.  It  adds  to  the  manly 
aspect  of  a  person  with  a  tin  pail  if  he  also 
carries  a  gun.  It  was  possible  I  might  start  up  a 


HOW  I  KILLED  A  BEAR. 


partridge ;  though  how  I  was  to  hit  him,  if  he 
started  up  instead  of  standing  still,  puzzled  me. 
Many  people  use  a  shot-gun  for  partridges.  I 
prefer  the  rifle :  it  makes  a  clean  job  of  death, 
and  does  not  prematurely  stuff  the  bird  with 
globules  of  lead.  The  rifle  was  a  Sharp's,  cany- 
ing  a  ball  cartridge  (ten  to  the  pound) ,  —  an  ex 
cellent  weapon  belonging  to  a  friend  of  mine, 
who  had  intended,  for  a  good  man}r  years  back, 
to  kill  a  deer  with  it.  He  could  hit  a  tree  with  it 

—  if  the  wind  did  not  blow,  and  the  atmosphere 
was  just  right,  and  the  tree  was  not  too  far  off 

—  nearly  eveiy  time.     Of  course,  the  tree  must 
have  some  size.     Needless  to  say  that  I  was  at 
that  time  no  sportsman.     Years  ago  I  killed   a 
robin  under  the  most  humiliating  circumstances. 
The  bird  was  in  a  low  chcny-tree.     I  loaded  a 
big  shot-gun  pretty  full,  crept  up  under  the  tree, 
rested  the  gun  on  the   fence,  with   the   muzzle 
more  than  ten  feet  from  the  bird,  shut  both  e}Tes, 
and  pulled  the  trigger.     When  I  got  up  to  see 
what  had  happened,  the  robin  was  scattered  about 
under  the  tree  in  more  than  a  thousand  pieces, 


8  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

no  one  of  which  was  big  enough  to  enable  a 
naturalist  to  decide  from  it  to  what  species  it 
belonged.  This  disgusted  me  with  the  life  of  a 
sportsman.  I  mention  the  incident  to  show,  that, 
although  I  went  blackberry  ing  armed,  there  was 
not  much  inequalitj7  between  me  and  the  bear. 

In  this  blackberry-patch  bears  had  been  seen. 
The  summer  before,  our  colored  cook,  accom 
panied  by  a  little  girl  of  the  vicinage,  was  pick 
ing  berries  there  one  da}*,  when  a  bear  came  out 
of  the  woods,  and  walked  towards  them.  The 
girl  took  to  her  heels,  and  escaped.  Aunt  Chloe 
was  paralyzed  with  terror.  Instead  of  attempt 
ing  to  run,  she  sat  down  on  the  ground  where 
she  was  standing,  and  began  to  weep  and  scream, 
giving  herself  up  for  lost.  The  bear  was  bewil 
dered  by  this  conduct.  He  approached  and 
looked  at  her ;  he  walked  around  and  surveyed 
her.  Probabty  he  had  never  seen  a  colored  per 
son  before,  and  did  not  know  whether  she  would 
agree  with  him  :  at  any  rate,  after  watching  her  a 
few  moments,  he  turned  about,  and  went  into  the 
forest.  This  is  an  authentic  instance  of  the  deli- 


HOW  I  KILLED  A    BEAR.  9 

cate  consideration  of  a  bear,  and  is  much  more 
remarkable  than  the  forbearance  towards  the 
African  slave  of  the  well-known  lion,  because  the 
bear  had  no  thorn  in  his  foot. 

When  I  had  climbed  the  hill,  I  set  up  my  rifle 
against  a  tree,  and  began  picking  berries,  lured 
on  from  bush  to  bush  by  the  black  gleam  of  fruit 
(that  always  promises  more  in  the  distance  than 
it  realizes  when  you  reach  it)  ;  penetrating  farther 
and  farther,  through  leaf-shaded  cow-paths  flecked 
with  sunlight,  into  clearing  after  clearing.  I 
could  hear  on  all  sides  the  tinkle  of  bells,  the 
cracking  of  sticks,  and  the  stamping  of  cattle 
that  were  taking  refuge  in  the  thicket  from  the 
flies.  Occasional!}',  as  I  broke  through  a  covert, 
I  encountered  a  meek  cow,  who  stared  at  me 
stupidly  for  a  second,  and  then  shambled  off  into 
the  brush.  I  became  accustomed  to  this  dumb 
society,  and  picked  on  in  silence,  attributing  all 
the  wood-noises  to  the  cattle,  thinking  nothing 
of  an}'  real  bear.  In  point  of  fact,  however,  I 
was  thinking  all  the  time  of  a  nice  romantic  bear, 
and,  as  I  picked,  was  composing  a  story  about  a 


10  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

generous  she-bear  who  had  lost  her  cub,  and  who 
seized  a  small  girl  in  this  very  wood,  carried  her 
tenderly  off*  to  a  cave,  and  brought  her  up  on 
bear's  milk  and  honey.  When  the  girl  got  big 
enough  to  run  awa}',  moved  by  her  inherited  in 
stincts,  she  escaped,  and  came  into  the  valley  to 
her  father's  house  (this  part  of  the  story  was  to 
be  worked  out,  so  that  the  child  would  know  her 
father  by  some  family  resemblance,  and  have 
some  language  in  which  to  address  him),  and 
told  him  where  the  bear  lived.  The  father  took 
his  gun,  and,  guided  by  the  unfeeling  daughter, 
went  into  the  woods  and  shot  the  bear,  who 
never  made  any  resistance,  and  only,  when  dying, 
turned  reproachful  eyes  upon  her  murderer.  The 
moral  of  the  tale  was  to  be  kindness  to  animals. 

I  was  in  the  midst  of  this  tale,  when  I  hap 
pened  to  look  some  rods  away  to  the  other  edge 
of  the  clearing,  and  there  was  a  bear !  He  was 
standing  on  his  hind-legs,  and  doing  just  what  I 
was  doing, — picking  blackberries.  With  one 
paw  he  bent  down  the  bush,  while  with  the  other 
he  clawed  the  berries  into  his  mouth, — green 


110  W  I  KILLED  A  DEAR.  11 

ones  and  all.  To  say  that  I  was  astonished  is 
inside  the  maik.  I  suddenly  discovered  that  I 
didn't  want  to  see  a  bear,  after  all.  At  about 
the  same  moment  the  bear  saw  me,  stopped  eat 
ing  berries,  and  regarded  me  with  a  glad  sur 
prise.  It  is  all  very  well  to  imagine  what  you 
would  do  under  such  circumstances.  Probably 
3'ou  wouldn't  do  it :  I  didn't.  The  bear  dropped 
down  on  his  fore-feet,  and  came  slowly  towards 
me.  Climbing  a  tree  was  of  no  use,  with  so 
good  a  climber  in  the  rear.  If  I  started  to  run, 
I  had  no  doubt  the  bear  would  give  chase ;  and 
although  a  bear  cannot  run  down  hill  as  fast  as 
he  can  run  up  hill,  yet  I  felt  that  he  could  get 
over  this  rough,  brush-tangled  ground  faster  than 
I  could. 

The  bear  was  approaching.  It  suddenly  oc 
curred  to  me  how  I  could  divert  his  mind  until  I 
could  fall  back  upon  my  military  base.  My  pail 
was  nearly  full  of  excellent  berries,  —  much  better 
than  the  bear  could  pick  himself.  I  put  the  pail 
on  the  ground,  and  slowly  backed  awa}"  from  it, 
keeping  my  eye,  as  beast-tamers  do,  on  the  bear 
The  ruse  succeeded. 


12  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

The  bear  came  up  to  the  berries,  and  stopped. 
Not  accustomed  to  eat  out  of  a  pail,  he  tipped  it 
over,  and  nosed  about  in  the  fruit,  "  gorming  " 
(if  there  is  such  a  word)  it  down,  mixed  with 
leaves  and  dirt,  like  a  pig.  The  bear  is  a  worse 
feeder  than  the  pig.  Whenever  he  disturbs  a 
maple-sugar  camp  in  the  spring,  he  alwaj's  upsets 
the  buckets  of  sirup,  and  tramples  round  in  the 
sticky  sweets,  wasting  more  than  he  eats.  The 
bear's  manners  are  thoroughly  disagreeable. 

As  soon  as  my  enemy's  head  was  down,  I 
started  and  ran.  Somewhat  out  of  breath,  and 
shal\y,  I  reached  my  faithful  rifle.  It  was  not  a 
moment  too  soon.  I  heard  the  bear  crashing 
through  the  brush  after  me.  Enraged  at  nry 
duplicity,  he  was  now  coming  on  with  blood  in  his 
eye.  I  felt  that  the  time  of  one  of  us  was 
probably  short.  The  rapidity  of  thought  at  such 
moments  of  peril  is  well  known.  I  thought  an 
octavo  volume,  had  it  illustrated  and  published, 
sold  fifty  thousand  copies,  and  went  to  Europe 
on  the  proceeds,  while  that  bear  was  loping  across 
the  clearing.  As  I  was  cocking  the  gun,  I  made 


I  KILLED  A  BEAR.  13 


a  hasty  and  unsatisfactory  review  of  my  whole 
life.  I  noted,  that,  even  in  such  a  compulsory 
review,  it  is  almost  impossible  to  think  of  any 
good  thing  you  have  done.  The  sins  come  out 
uncommonl}"  strong.  I  recollected  a  newspaper 
subscription  I  had  delayed  paying  years  and 
years  ago,  until  both  editor  and  newspaper  were 
dead,  and  which  now  never  could  be  paid  to  all 
eternity. 

The  bear  was  coming  on. 

I  tried  to  remember  what  I  had  read  about 
encounters  with  bears.  I  couldn't  recall  an  in 
stance  in  which  a  man  had  run  away  from  a  bear 
in  the  woods  and  escaped,  although  I  recalled 
plenty  where  the  bear  had  run  from  the  man  and 
got  off.  I  tried  to  think  what  is  the  best  wa}*  to 
kill  a  bear  with  a  gun,  when  you  are  not  near 
enough  to  club  him  with  the  stock.  My  first 
thjught  was  to  fire  at  his  head  ;  to  plant  the  ball 
between  his  e}'es  :  but  this  is  a  dangerous  experi 
ment.  The  bear's  brain  is  very  small  :  and,  un 
less  you  hit  that,  the  bear  does  not  mind  a  bullet 
in  his  head  ;  that  is,  not  at  the  time.  I  remcin- 


14  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

bered  that  the  instant  death  of  the  bear  would 
follow  a  bullet  planted  just  back  of  his  fore-leg, 
and  sent  into  his  heart.  This  spot  is  also  diffi 
cult  to  reach,  unless  the  bear  stands  off,  side 
towards  you,  like  a  target.  I  finally  determined 
to  fire  at  him  generally. 

The  bear  was  coming  on. 

The  contest  seemed  to  me  very  different  from 
any  thing  at  Creedmoor.  I  had  carefully  read  the 
reports  of  the  shooting  there  ;  but  it  was  not  easy 
to  apply  the  experience  I  had  thus  acquired.  I 
hesitated  whether  I  had  better  fire  lying  on  my 
stomach  ;  or  lying  on  my  back,  and  resting  the  gun 
on  nry  toes.  But  in  neither  position,  I  reflected, 
could  I  see  the  bear  until  he  was  upon  me.  The 
range  was  too  short ;  and  the  bear  wouldn't  wait 
for  me  to  examine  the  thermometer,  and  note  the 
direction  of  the  wind.  Trial  of  the  Creedmoor 
method,  therefore,  had  to  be  abandoned ;  and  I 
bitterly  regretted  that  I  had  not  read  more  ac 
counts  of  offhand  shooting. 

For  the  bear  was  coming  on. 

I  tried  to  fix  my  last  thoughts  upon  my  family. 


HOW  I  KILLED  A  SEAR. 


As  my  family  is  small,  this  was  not  difficult. 
Dread  of  displeasing  my  wife,  or  hurting  her 
Teclings,  was  uppermost  in  my  mind.  What 
Tvould  be  her  anxiety  as  hour  after  hour  passed 
on,  and  I  did  not  return  !  What  would  the  rest  of 
the  household  think  as  the  afternoon  passed,  and 
no  blackberries  came  !  What  would  be  my  wife's 
mortification  when  the  news  was  brought  that  her 
husband  had  been  eaten  by  a  bear !  I  cannot 
imagine  any  thing  more  ignominious  than  to  have 
a  husband  eaten  by  a  bear.  And  this  was  not 
my  only  anxiety.  The  mind  at  such  times  is  not 
under  control."  With  the  gravest  fears  the  most 
whimsical  ideas  will  occur.  I  looked  be}'ond  the 
mourning  friends,  and  thought  what  kind  of  an 
epitaph  they  would  be  compelled  to  put  upon  the 
stone.  Something  like  this  :  — 

HERE  LIE  THE  REMAINS 
OF 

EATEN  BY  A  BEAR 

Aug.  20,  1877. 
It  is  a  very  unheroic  and  even  disagreeable 


16  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

epitaph.  That  "  eaten  by  a  bear  "  is  intolerable. 
It  is  grotesque.  And  then  I  thought  what  an 
inadequate  language  the  English  is  for  compact 
expression .  It  would  not  answer  to  put  upon  the 
stone  simply  "  eaten  ;  "  for  that  is  indefinite,  and 
requires  explanation :  it  might  mean  eaten  by  a 
cannibal.  This  difficulty  could  not  occur  in  the 
German,  where  essen  signifies  the  act  of  feeding 
b}"  a  man,  and  fr essen  by  a  beast.  How  simple 
the  thing  would  be  in  German  !  — 

HIER   LIEGT 
HOCHWOHLGEBOREN 

HERR , 

GEFRESSEN 

Aug.  20,  1877. 

That  explains  itself.  The  well-born  one  was 
eaten  by  a  beast,  and  presumably  by  a  bear,  — 
an  animal  that  has  a  bad  reputation  since  the 
da}Ts  of  Elisha. 

The  bear  was  coming  on  ;  he  had,  in  fact,  come 
on.  I  judged  that  he  could  see  the  whites  of  my 
eyes.  All  my  subsequent  reflections  were  con 
fused.  I  raised  the  gun,  covered  the  bear's 


HOW  I  KILLED  A  BEAK.  17 

breast  with  the  sight,  and  let  drive.  Then  I 
turned,  and  ran  like  a  deer.  I  did  not  hear  the 
bear  pursuing.  I  looked  back.  The  bear  had 
stopped.  He  was  lying  down.  I  then  remem 
bered  that  the  best  thing  to  do  after  having  fired 
your  gun  is  to  reload  it.  I  slipped  in  a  charge, 
keeping  my  eyes  on  the  bear.  He  never  stirred. 
I  walked  back  suspiciously.  There  was  a  quiver 
in  the  hind-legs,  but  no  other  motion.  Still  he 
might  be  shamming:  bears  often  sham.  To 
make  sure,  I  approached,  and  put  a  ball  into  his 
head.  He  didn't  mind  it  now  :  he  minded  noth 
ing.  Death  had  come  to  him  with  a  merciful 
suddenness.  He  was  calm  in  death.  In  order 
that  he  might  remain  so,  I  blew  his  brains  out, 
and  then  started  for  home.  I  had  killed  a  bear ! 

Notwithstanding  my  excitement,  I  managed  to 
saunter  into  the  house  with  an  unconcerned  ah*. 
There  was  a  chorus  of  voices  :  — 

"  Where  are  your  blackberries?  " 

"  Why  were  3*011  gone  so  long?  " 

"  Where's  your  pail?  " 

"  I  left  the  pail." 


18  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

4 '  Left  the  pail  ?     What  for  ?  '  * 

"  A  bear  wanted  it." 

"  Oh,  nonsense  !  " 

"  Well,  the  last  I  saw  of  it,  a  bear  had  it." 

"  Oh,  come  !     You  didn't  realty  see  a  bear?  " 

"  Yes,  but  I  did  really  see  a  real  bear." 

"  Did  he  run?" 

"  Yes  :  he  ran  after  me." 

U*I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it.  What  did  you 
do?" 

"  Oh !  nothing  particular  —  except  kill  the 
bear." 

Cries  of  "  Gammon!"  "Don't  believe  it!" 
"Where's  the  bear?" 

"If  you  want  to  see  the  bear,  you  must  go 
up  into  the  woods.  I  couldn't  bring  him  down 
alone." 

Having  satisfied  the  household  that  something 
extraordinary  had  occurred,  and  excited  the  post 
humous  fear  of  some  of  them  for  my  own  safety, 
I  went  down  into  the  valley  to  get  help.  The 
great  bear-hunter,  who  keeps  one  of  the  summer 
boarding-houses,  received  my  story  with  a  smile 


HOW  I  KILLED  A  BEAR.  ID 

of  incredulity ;  and  the  incredulity  spread  to  the 
other  inhabitants  and  to  the  boarders  as  soon  as 
the  story  was  known.  However,  as  I  insisted  in 
all  soberness,  and  offered  to  lead  them  to  the 
bear,  a  party  of  forty  or  fifty  people  at  last 
started  off  with  me  to  bring  the  bear  in.  No 
body  believed  there  was  any  bear  in  the  case  ;  but 
everybody  who  could  get  a  gun  carried  one  ;  and 
we  went  into  the  woods  armed  with  guns,  pistols, 
pitchforks,  and  sticks,  against  all  contingencies 
or  surprises,  —  a  crowd  made  up  mostly  of  scoff 
ers  and  jeerers. 

But  when  I  led  the  way  to  the  fatal  spot,  and 
pointed  out  the  bear,  lying  peacefully  wrapped 
in  his  own  skin,  something  like  terror  seized  the 
boarders,  and  genuine  excitement  the  natives. 
It  was  a  no-mistake  bear,  b}T  George!  and  the 
hero  of  the  fight  —  well,  I  will  not  insist  upon 
that.  But  what  a  procession  that  was,  canying 
the  bear  home !  and  wrhat  a  congregation  was 
speedily  gathered  in  the  \alley  to  see  the  bear ! 
Our  best  preacher  up  there  never  drew  any  thing 
like  it  on  Sunday. 


20  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

And  I  must  say  that  1113'  particular  friends,  who 
were  sportsmen,  behaved  very  well,  on  the  whole. 
They  didn't  deny  that  it  was  a  bear,  although 
they  said  it  was  small  for  a  bear.  Mr.  Deane, 
who  is  equally  good  with  a  rifle  and  a  rod,  admit 
ted  that  it  was  a  very  fair  shot.  He  is  probably 
the  best  salmon-fisher  in  the  United  States,  and 
he  is  an  equally  good  hunter.  I  suppose  there  is 
no  person  in  America  who  is  more  desirous  to 
kill  a  moose  than  he.  But  he  needlessly  re 
marked,  after  he  had  examined  the  wound  in  the 
bear,  that  he  had  seen  that  kind  of  a  shot  made 
by  a  cow's  horn. 

This  sort  of  talk  affected  me  not.  When  I 
went  to  sleep  that  night,  my  last  delicious  thought 
was,  "  I've  killed  a  bear  !  " 


II. 


LOST    IN   THE   WOODS. 

|T  ought  to  be  said,  by  vmy  of  explana 
tion,  that  my  being  lost  in  the  woods 
was  not  premeditated.  Nothing  could 
have  been  more  informal.  This  apology  can  be 
necessaiy  only  to  those  who  are  familiar  with  the 
Adirondack  literature.  Air^  person  not  familiar 
with  it  would  see  the  absurdity  of  one  going  to 
the  Northern  Wilderness  with  the  deliberate  pur 
pose  of  writing  about  himself  as  a  lost  man.  It 
ma}T  be  true,  that  a  book  about  this  wild  tract 
would  not  be  recognized  as  complete  without  a 
lost-man  story  in  it ;  since  it  is  almost  as  easy 
for  a  stranger  to  get  lost  in  the  Adirondacks  as 
in  Boston.  I  merely  desire  to  say  that  my 
unimportant  adventure  is  not  narrated  in  answer 


\  c5  IT  A  /^  y^N. 

OF  THK  ^ 


22  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

to  the  popular  demand,  and  I  do  not  wish  to  be 
held  responsible  for  its  variation  from  the  typical 
character  of  such  experiences. 

We  had  been  in  camp  a  week,  on  the  Upper 
Ausable  Lake.  This  is  a  gem  —  emerald  or  tur 
quoise  as  the  light  changes  it  —  set  in  the  virgin 
forest.  It  is  not  a  large  body  of  water,  is  ir- 
regulai  in  form,  and  about  a  mile  and  a  half  in 
length ;  but  in  the  sweep  of  its  wooded  shores, 
and  the  lovely  contour  of  the  lofty  mountains 
that  guard  it,  the  lake  is  probably  the  most 
charming  in  America.  Why  the  young  ladies 
and  gentlemen  who  camp  there  occasionally  vex 
the  days  and  nights  with  hooting,  and  singing 
sentimental  songs,  is  a  nrystery  even  to  the 
laughing  loon. 

I  left  my  companions  there  one  Saturday 
morning,  to  return  to  Keene  Valley,  intending  to 
fish  down  the  Ausable  River.  The  Upper  Lake 
discharges  itself  into  the  Lower  by  a  brook 
which  winds  through  a  mile  and  a  half  of  swamp 
and  woods.  Out  of  the  north  end  of  the  Lower 
Lake,  which  is  a  huge  sink  in  the  mountains,  and 


LOST  IN  THE  WOODS.  23 

mirrors  the  savage  precipices,  the  Ausable  breaks 
its  rocky  barriers,  and  flows  through  a  wild 
gorge,  several  miles,  to  the  valley  below.  Be 
tween  the  Lower  Lake  and  the  settlements  is 
j.n  extensive  forest,  traversed  by  a  cart-path, 
admirably  constructed  of  loose  stones,  roots  of 
trees,  decayed  logs,  slippery  rocks,  and  mud. 
The  gorge  of  the  river  forms  its  western  bounda 
ry.  I  followed  this  caricature  of  a  road  a  mile, 
or  more ;  then  gave  my  luggage  to  the  guide  to 
carry  home,  and  struck  off  through  the  forest,  by 
compass,  to  the  river.  I  promised  myself  an 
exciting  scramble  down  this  little-frequented 
canon,  and  a  creel  full  of  trout.  There  was  no 
difficulty  in  finding  the  river,  or  in  descending 
the  steep  precipice  to  its  bed :  getting  into  a 
scrape  is  usually  the  easiest  part  of  it.  The 
river  is  strewn  with  bowlders,  big  and  little, 
through  which  the  amber  water  rushes  with  an 
unceasing  thunderous  roar,  now  plunging  down 
in  white  falls,  then  swirling  round  in  dark  pools. 
The  da}*,  already  past  meridian,  was  delightful  ; 
at  least,  the  blue  strip  of  it  I  could  see  overhead, 


24  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

Better  pools  and  rapids  for  trout  never  were,  I 
thought,  as  I  concealed  myself  behind  a  bowlder, 
and  made  the  first  cast.  There  is  nothing  like 
the  thrill  of  expectation  over  the  first  throw  in 
unfamiliar  waters.  Fishing  is  like  gambling,  in 
that  failure  only  excites  hope  of  a  fortunate 
throw  next  time.  There  was  no  rise  to  the 
"leader"  on  the  first  cast,  nor  on  the  twenty- 
first  ;  and  I  cautiously  worked  my  way  down 
stream,  throwing  right  and  left.  When  I  had 
gone  half  a  mile,  my  opinion  of  the  character  of 
the  pools  was  unchanged  :  never  were  there  such 
places  for  trout ;  but  the  trout  were  out  of  their 
places.  Perhaps  they  didn't  care  for  the  fly : 
some  trout  seem  to  be  so  unsophisticated  as  to 
prefer  the  worm.  I  replaced  the  fly  with  a  baited 
hook :  the  worm  squirmed ;  the  waters  rushed 
and  roared ;  a  cloud  sailed  across  the  blue :  no 
trout  rose  to  the  lonesome  opportunity.  There 
is  a  certain  companionship  in  the  presence  of 
trout,  especially  when  you  can  feel  them  flopping 
in  your  fish-basket ;  but  it  became  evident  that 
there  were  no  trout  in  this  wilderness,  and  a 


LOST  IN  THE  WOODS.  25 

sense  of  isolation  for  the  first  time  came  over  ms 
There  was  no  living  thing  near.     The  river  had 
by  this  time  entered  a  deeper  gorge ;   walls  oi 
rocks  rose  perpendicularly  on  either  side,  —  pic 
turesqne  rocks,  painted  many  colors  by  the  oxide 
of  iron.     It  was  not  possible  to  climb  out  of  the 
gorge ;  it  was  impossible  to  find  a  way  by  the 
side  of  the  river ;    and  getting  down  the  bed, 
over  the  falls,  and  through  the  flumes,  was  not 
easy,  and  consumed  time. 

Was  that  thunder  ?  Very  likely.  But  thunder- 
showers  are  always  brewing  in  these  mountain- 
fortresses,  and  it  did  not  occur  to  me  that  there 
was  any  thing  personal  in  it.  Ver}7  soon,  how 
ever,  the  hole  in  the  sky  closed  in,  and  the  rain 
dashed  down.  It  seemed  a  providential  time  to 
eat  my  luncheon ;  and  I  took  shelter  under  a 
scraggy  pine  that  had  rooted  itself  in  the  edge  of 
the  rocky  slope.  The  shower  soon  passed,  and  I 
continued  m}'  journej',  creeping  over  the  slippery 
rocks,  and  continuing  to  show  in}'  confidence  in 
the  unresponsive  trout.  The  wa}T  grew  wilder 
and  more  grewsome.  The  thunder  began  again, 


26  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

rolling  along  over  the  tops  of  the  mountains,  and 
reverberating  in  sharp  concussions  in  the  gorge  : 
the  lightning  also  darted  down  into  the  darkening 
passage,  and  then  the  rain.  Every  enlightened 
being,  even  if  he  is  in  a  fisherman's  dress  of  shirt 
and  pantaloons,  hates  to  get  wet ;  and  I  ignomin- 
iously  crept  under  the  edge  of  a  sloping  bowlder. 
It  was  all  very  well  at  first,  until  streams  of  water 
began  to  crawl  along  the  face  of  the  rock,  and 
trickle  down  the  back  of  my  neck.  This  was  re 
fined  miseiy,  unheroic  and  humiliating,  as  suffer 
ing  alwa}*s  is  when  unaccompanied  by  resignation. 
A  longer  time  than  I  knew  was  consumed  in 
this  and  repeated  efforts  to  wait  for  the  slacken 
ing  and  renewing  storm  to  pass  away.  In  the 
intervals  of  calm  I  still  fished,  and  even  de 
scended  to  what  a  sportsman  considers  incredible 
baseness  :  I  put  a  "  sinker  "  on  my  line.  It  is 
the  practice  of  the  country-folk,  whose  only 
object  is  to  get  fish,  to  use  a  good  deal  of  bait, 
sink  the  hook  to  the  bottom  of  the  pools,  and 
wait  the  slow  appetite  of  the  summer  trout.  I 
tried  this  also.  I  might  as  well  have  fished  in  a 


LOST  IN  THE  WOODS.  27 

pork-barrel.  It  is  true,  that,  in  one  deep,  black, 
round  pool,  I  lured  a  small  trout  from  the  bottom, 
and  deposited  him  in  the  creel;  but  it  was  an 
accident.  Though  I  sat  there  in  the  awful  silence 
(the  roar  of  water  and  thunder  only  emphasized 
the  stillness)  full  half  an  hour,  I  was  not  en 
couraged  by  another  nibble.  Hope,  however,  did 
not  die :  I  always  expected  to  find  the  trout  in 
the  next  flume  ;  and  so  I  toiled  slowly  on,  uncon 
scious  of  the  passing  time.  At  each  turn  of  the 
stream  I  expected  to  see  the  end,  and  at  each 
turn  I  saw  a  long,  narrow  stretch  of  rocks  and 
foaming  water.  Climbing  out  of  the  ravine  was, 
in  most  places,  simply  impossible  ;  and  I  began  to 
look  with  interest  for  a  slide,  where  bushes  rooted 
in  the  scant  earth  would  enable  me  to  scale  the 
precipice.  I  did  not  doubt  that  I  was  nearly 
through  the  gorge.  I  could  at  length  see  the 
huge  form  of  the  Giant  of  the  Valley,  scarred 
with  avalanches,  at  the  end  of  the  vista ;  and  it 
seemed  not  far  off.  But  it  kept  its  distance,  as 
onl}"  a  mountain  can,  while  I  stumbled  and  slid 
down  the  rocky  way.  The  rain  had  now  set  in 


28  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

with  persistence,  and  suddenly  I  became  aware 
that  it  was  growing  dark  ;  and  I  said  to  myself, 
"  If  you  don't  wish  to  spend  the  night  in  this  hor 
rible  chasm,  you'd  better  escape  speedily."  for 
tunately  I  reached  a  place  where  the  face  of  the 
precipice  was  bush-grown,  and  with  considerable 
labor  scrambled  up  it. 

Having  no  doubt  that  I  was  within  hah*1  a  mile, 
perhaps  within  a  few  rods,  of  the  house  above 
the  entrance  of  the  gorge,  and  that,  in  any  event, 
I  should  fall  into  the  cart-path  in  a  few  minutes, 
I  struck  boldly  into  the  forest,  congratulating 
nryself  on  having  escaped  out  of  the  river.  So 
sure  was  I  of  my  whereabouts,  that  I  did  not 
note  the  bend  of  the  river,  nor  look  at  my  com 
pass.  The  one  trout  in  my  basket  was  no  burden, 
and  I  stepped  lightly  out. 

The  forest  was  of  hard- wood,  and  open,  except 
for  a  thick  undergrowth  of  moose-bush.  It  was 
raining, — in  fact,  it  had  "been  raining,  more  or 
less,  for  a  month,  —  and  the  woods  were  soaked. 
This  moose-bush  is  most  anno}'ing  stuff  to  travel 
through  in  a  rain  ;  for  the  broad  leaves  slap  one 


LOST  IN  THE  WOODS.  29 

in  the  face,  and  sop  him  with  wet.  The  way 
grew  every  moment  more  dingy.  The  heavy 
clouds  above  the  thick  foliage  brought  night  on 
premature!}*.  It  was  clecidcdty  premature  to  a 
near-sighted  man,  whose  glasses  the  rain  rendered 
useless :  such  a  person  ought  to  be  at  home 
early.  On  leaving  the  river-bank  I  had  borne 
to  the  left,  so  as  to  be  sure  to  strike  either  the 
clearing  or  the  road,  and  not  wander  off  into  the 
measureless  forest.  I  confidently  pursued  this 
course,  and  went  gayly  on  by  the  left  flank. 
That  I  did  not  come  to  any  opening  or  path,  only 
showed  that  I  had  slightly  mistaken  the  distance  : 
I  was  going  in  the  right  direction. 

I  was  so  certain  of  this,  that  I  quickened  my 
pace,  and  got  up  with  alacrity  every  time  I  tum 
bled  down  amid  the  slippery  leaves  and  catch 
ing  roots,  and  hurried  on.  And  I  kept  to  the 
left.  It  even  occurred  to  me  that  I  was  turning 
to  the  left  so  much,  that  I  might  come  back  to 
the  river  again.  It  grew  more  dusky,  and  rained 
more  violently ;  but  there  was  nothing  alarming 
in  the  situation,  since  I  knew  exactly  where  I 


30  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

was.  It  was  a  little  mortifying  that  I  had  mis 
calculated  the  distance :  yet,  so  far  was  I  from 
feeling  any  uneasiness  about  this,  that  I  quick 
ened  my  pace  again,  and,  before  I  knew  it,  was 
in  a  full  run ;  that  is,  as  full  a  run  as  a  person 
can  indulge  in  in  the  dusk,  with  so  many  trees  in 
the  way.  No  nervousness,  but  simply  a  reason 
able  desire  to  get  there.  I  desired  to  look  upon 
myself  as  the  person  "not  lost,  but  gone  before." 
As  time  passed,  and  darkness  fell,  and  no  clear 
ing  or  road  appeared,  I  ran  a  little  faster.  It 
didn't  seem  possible  that  the  people  had  moved, 
or  the  road  been  changed  ;  and  yet  I  was  sure  of 
my  direction.  I  went  on  with  an  energy  in 
creased  by  the  ridiculousness  of  the  situation,  the 
danger  that  an  experienced  woodsman  was  in 
of  getting  home  late  for  supper ;  the  lateness  of 
the  meal  being  nothing  to  the  gibes  of  the  un- 
lost.  How  long  I  kept  this  course,  and  how  far 
I  went  on,  I  do  not  know ;  but  suddenly  I 
stumbled  against  an  ill-placed  tree,  and  sat  down 
on  the  soaked  ground,  a  trifle  out  of  breath.  It 
then  occurred  to  me  that  I  had  better  verify  mj 


LOST  IN  THE  WOODS.  31 

course  by  the  compass.  There  was  scarce!}- light 
enough  to  distinguish  the  black  end  of  the  needle. 
To  my  amazement,  the  compass,  which  was  made 
near  Greenwich,  was  wrong.  Allowing  for  the 
natural  variation  of  the  needle,  it  was  absurdly 
wrong.  It  made  out  that  I  was  going  south 
when  I  was  going  north.  It  intimated,  that,  in 
stead  of  turning  to  the  left,  I  had  been  making 
a  circuit  to  the  right.  According  to  the  compass, 
the  Lord  only  knew  where  I  was. 

The  inclination  of  persons  in  the  woods  to 
travel  in  a  circle  is  unexplained.  I  suppose  it 
arises  from  the  sympathy  of  the  legs  with  the 
brain.  Most  people  reason  in  a  circle :  their 
minds  go  round  and  round,  alwa}-s  in  the  same 
track.  For  the  last  half-hour  I  had  been  saying 
over  a  sentence  that  started  itself:  "  I  wonder 
where  that  road  is !  "  I  had  said  it  over  till  it 
had  lost  all  meaning.  I  kept  going  round  on  it ; 
and  yet  I  could  not  believe  that  my  body  had 
been  travelling  in  a  circle.  Not  being  able  to 
recognize  any  tracks,  I  have  no  evidence  that  I 
had  so  travelled,  except  the  general  testimony  of 
U>st  men. 


32  JiV  THE  WILDERNESS. 

The  compass  annoyed  me.  I've  known  ex 
perienced  guides  utterly  discredit  it.  It  couldn't 
be  that  I  was  to  turn  about,  and  go  the  way  I 
had  come.  Nevertheless,  I  said  to  myself, 
"  You'd  better  keep  a  cool  head,  my  bo}T,  or  you 
are  in  for  a  night  of  it.  Better  listen  to  science 
than  to  spunk."  And  I  resolved  to  heed  the 
impartial  needle.  I  was  a  little  weary  of  the 
rough  tramping  :  but  it  was  necessary  to  be  mov 
ing  ;  for,  with  wet  clothes  and  the  night  air,  I 
was  decidedly  chilly.  I  turned  towards  the  north, 
and  slipped  and  stumbled  along.  A  more  un 
inviting  forest  to  pass  the  night  in  I  never  saw. 
Every  thing  was  soaked.  If  I  became  exhausted, 
it  would  be  necessary  to  build  a  fire ;  and,  as  I 
walked  on,  I  couldn't  find  a  dry  bit  of  wood. 
Even  if  a  little  punk  were  discovered  in  a  rotten 
log,  I  had  no  hatchet  to  cut  fuel.  I  thought  it 
all  over  calmly.  I  had  the  usual  three  matches 
in  my  pocket.  I  knew  exactly  what  would  hap 
pen  if  I  tried  to  build  a  fire.  The  first  match 
would  prove  to  be  wet.  The  second  match,  when 
struck,  would  shine  and  smell,  and  fizz  a  little, 


LOST  IN  THE  WOODS. 


and  then  go  out.  There  would  be  only  one 
match  left.  Death  would  ensue  if  it  failed.  I 
should  get  close  to  the  log,  crawl  under  my  hat, 
strike  the  match,  see  it  catch,  flicker,  almost  go 
out  (the  reader  painfulty  excited  by  this  time) , 
blaze  up,  nearly  expire,  and  finally  fire  the  punk, 
-thank  God!  And  I  said  to  myself,  "The 
public  don't  want  any  more  of  this  thing :  it  is 
played  out.  Either  have  a  box  of  matches,  or 
let  the  first  one  catch  fire." 

In  this  gloomy  mood  I  plunged  along.  The 
prospect  was  cheerless  ;  for,  apart  from  the  com 
fort  that  a  fire  would  give,  it  is  necessary,  at 
night,  to  keep  off  the  wild  beasts.  I  fancied  I 
could  hear  the  tread  of  the  stealthy  brutes  fol 
lowing  their  pre}T.  But  there  was  one  source  of 
profound  satisfaction,  — the  catamount  had  been 
killed.  Mr.  Colvin,  the  triangulating  surve}'or 
of  the  Adirondacks,  killed  him  in  his  last  official 
report  to  the  State.  Whether  he  despatched  him 
with  a  theodolite  or  a  barometer  does  not  mat 
ter  :  he  is  officially  dead,  and  none  of  the  travel 
lers  can  kill  him  any  more.  Yet  he  has  served 
them  a  good  turn. 


34  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

I  knew  that  catamount  well.  One  night  when 
we  la}7  in  the  bogs  of  the  South  Beaver  Meadow, 
under  a  canopy  of  mosquitoes,  the  serene  mid 
night  was  parted  by  a  wild  and  human-like  cry 
from  a  neighboring  mountain.  "  That's  a  cat," 
said  the  guide.  I  felt  in  a  moment  that  it  was 
the  voice  of  "  modern  cultchah."  "  Modern  cul 
ture,"  says  Mr.  Joseph  Cook  in  a  most  impres 
sive  period,  —  "  modern  culture  is  a  child  crying 
in  the  wilderness,  and  with  no  voice  but  a  cry." 
That  describes  the  catamount  exactly.  The 
next  da}',  when  we  ascended  the  mountain,  we 
came  upon  the  traces  of  this  brute,  —  a  spot 
where  he  had  stood  and  cried  in  the  night ;  and  I 
confess  that  my  hair  rose  with  the  consciousness 
of  his  recent  presence,  as  it  is  said  to  do  when  a 
spirit  passes  by. 

Whatever  consolation  the  absence  of  cata 
mount  in  a  dark,  drenched,  and  howling  wilder 
ness  can  impart,  that  I  experienced ;  but  I 
thought  what  a  satire  upon  my  present  condition 
Was  modern  culture,  with  its  plain  thinking  and 
high  living  !  It  was  impossible  to  get  much  sat- 


OF 

UNIVERSITY 


LOST  IN  THE 


isfaction  out  of  the  real  and  the  ideal,  —  the  me 
and  the  not-me.  At  this  time  what  impressed 
me  most  was  the  absurdity  of  irry  position 
looked  at  in  the  light  of  modern  civilization  and 
all  m}'  advantages  and  acquirements.  It  seemed 
pitiful  that  societ}7  could  do  absolutely  nothing 
for  me.  It  was,  in  fact,  humiliating  to  reflect  that 
it  would  now  be  profitable  to  exchange  all  my 
possessions  for  the  woods  instinct  of  the  most 
unlettered  guide.  I  began  to  doubt  the  value  of 
the  "  culture  "  that  blunts  the  natural  instincts. 

It  began  to  be  a  question  whether  I  could  hold 
out  to  walk  all  night  ;  for  I  must  travel,  or  perish. 
And  now  I  imagined  that  a  spectre  was  walking 
b}*  my  side.  This  was  Famine.  To  be  sure,  I 
had  only  recently  eaten  a  hearty  luncheon  :  but 
the  pangs  of  hunger  got  hold  on  me  when  I 
thought  that  I  should  have  no  supper,  no  break 
fast  ;  and,  as  the  procession  of  unattainable  meals 
stretched  before  me,  I  grew  hungrier  and  hun 
grier.  I  could  feel  that  I  was  becoming  gaunt, 
and  wasting  awa}T  :  already  I  seemed  to  be  ema 
ciated.  It  is  astonishing  how  speedily  a  jocund, 


36  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

well-conditioned  human  being  can  be  trans 
formed  into  a  spectacle  of  poverty  and  want. 
Lose  a  man  in  the  woods,  drench  him,  tear  his 
pantaloons,  get  his  imagination  running  on  his 
lost  supper  and  the  cheerful  fireside  that  is  ex 
pecting  him,  and  he  will  become  haggard  in  an 
hour.  I  am  not  dwelling  upon  these  things  to 
excite  the  reader's  s}Tmpathy,  but  only  to  advise 
him,  if  he  contemplates  an  adventure  of  this 
kind,  to  provide  himself  with  matches,  kindling- 
wood,  something  more  to  eat  than  one  raw  trout, 
and  not  to  select  a  rainy  night  for  it. 

Nature  is  so  pitiless,  so  unresponsive,  to  a  per 
son  in  trouble  !  I  had  read  of  the  soothing  com 
panionship  of  the  forest,  the  pleasure  of  the 
pathless  woods.  But  I  thought,  as  I  stumbled 
along  in  the  dismal  actualuvy,  that,  if  I  ever  got 
out  of  it,  I  would  write  a  letter  to  the  news 
papers,  exposing  the  whole  thing.  There  is  an 
impassive,  stolid  brutality  about  the  woods,  that 
has  never  been  enough  insisted  on.  I  tried  to 
keep  my  mind  fixed  upon  the  fact  of  man's  su 
periority  to  Nature ;  his  ability  to  dominate  and 


LOST  IN  THE  WOODS.  37 

outwit  her.  My  situation  was  an  amusing  satire 
on  this  theory.  I  fancied  that  I  could  feel  a  sneer 
in  the  woods  at  m}'  detected  conceit.  There  was 
something  personal  in  it.  The  downpour  of  the 
rain  and  the  slipperiness  of  the  ground  were  ele 
ments  of  discomfort ;  but  there  was,  besides 
these,  a  kind  of  terror  in  the  vcr}r  character  of 
the  forest  itself.  I  think  this  arose  not  more 
from  its  immensity  than  from  the  kind  of  stolidity 
to  which  I  have  alluded.  It  seemed  to  me  that 
it  would  be  a  sort  of  relief  to  kick  the  trees.  I 
don't  wonder  that  the  bears  fall  to,  occasionally, 
and  scratch  the  bark  off  the  great  pines  and 
maples,  tearing  it  angrily  away.  One  must  have 
some  vent  to  his  feelings.  It  is  a  common  expe 
rience  of  people  lost  in  the  woods  to  lose  their 
heads  ;  and  even  the  woodsmen  themselves  are 
not  free  from  this  panic  when  some  accident  has 
thrown  them  out  of  their  reckoning.  Fright  un 
settles  the  judgment :  the  oppressive  silence  of 
the  woods  is  a  vacuum  in  which  the  mind  goes 
astray.  It's  a  hollow  sham,  this  pantheism,  I 
said  ;  being  "  one  with  Nature  "  is  all  humbug: 


38  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

I  should  like  to  see  somebocty.  Man,  to  be  sure, 
is  of  very  little  account,  and  soon  gets  beyond  his 
depth  ;  but  the  societj-  of  the  least  human  being 
is  better  than  this  gigantic  indifference.  The 
' '  rapture  on  the  lonely  shore  ' '  is  agreeable  only 
when  you  know  }'ou  can  at  any  moment  go  home. 
I  had  now  given  up  all  expectation  of  finding 
the  road,  and  was  steering  my  way  as  well  as  I 
could  northward  towards  the  valley.  In  nvy  haste 
I  made  slow  progress.  Probably  the  distance  I 
travelled  was  short,  and  the  time  consumed  not 
long  ;  but  I  seemed  to  be  adding  mile  to  mile,  and 
hour  to  hour.  I  had  time  to  review  the  incidents 
of  the  Rosso-Turkish  war,  and  to  forecast  the 
entire  Eastern  question  ;  I  outlined  the  characters 
of  all  my  companions  left  in  camp,  and  sketched 
in  a  sort  of  comedy  the  sympathetic  and  dispar 
aging  observations  they  would  make  on  my  ad 
venture  ;  I  repeated  something  like  a  thousand 
times,  without  contradiction,  "  What  a  fool  you 
were  to  leave  the  river  !  "  I  stopped  twenty  times, 
thinking  I  heard  its  loud  roar,  always  deceived 
by  the  wind  in  the  tree-tops  ;  I  began  to  enter- 


LOST  IN  THE  WOODS. 


tain  serious  doubts  about  the  compass,  —  when 
suddenly  I  became  aware  that  I  was  no  longer  on 
level  ground :  I  was  descending  a  slope  ;  I  was 
actually  in  a  ravine.  In  a  moment  more  I  was 
in  a  brook  newly  formed  by  the  rain.  "Thank 
Heaven  !  "  I  cried  :  "  this  I  shall  follow,  whatever 
conscience  or  the  compass  says.'*  In  this  region, 
all  streams  go,  sooner  or  later,  into  the  vallej^. 
This  ravine,  this  stream,  no  doubt,  led  to  the 
river.  I  splashed  and  tumbled  along  down  it  in 
mud  and  water.  Down  hill  we  went  together,  the 
fall  showing  that  I  must  have  wandered  to  high 
ground.  When  I  guessed  that  I  must  be  close  to 
the  river,  I  suddenly  stepped  into  mud  up  to  my 
ankles.  It  was  the  road,  —  running,  of  course, 
the  wrong  wa}r,  but  still  the  blessed  road.  It 
was  a  mere  canal  of  liquid  mud ;  but  man  had 
made  it,  and  it  would  take  me  home.  I  was  at 
least  three  miles  from  the  point  I  supposed  I  was 
near  at  sunset,  and  I  had  before  me  a  toilsome 
walk  of  six  or  seven  miles,  most  of  the  way  in  a 
ditch  ;  but  it  is  truth  to  say  that  I  enjoyed  every 
step  of  it.  I  was  safe  ;  I  knew  where  I  was  ;  and 


40  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

I  could  have  walked  till  morning.  The  mind  had 
again  got  the  upper  hand  of  the  body,  and  began 
to  plume  itself  on  its  superiority :  it  was  even 
disposed  to  doubt  whether  it  had  been  ' '  lost ' ' 
at  all. 


III. 


A    FIGHT    WITH    A    TROUT. 

'ROUT-FISHING  in  the  Adirondacks 
would  be  a  more  attractive  pastime  than 
it  is,  but  for  the  popular  notion  of  its 
danger.  The  trout  is  a  retiring  and  harmless 
animal,  except  when  he  is  aroused,  and  forced 
into  a  combat ;  and  then  his  agility,  fierceness, 
and  vindictiveness  become  apparent.  No  one 
who  has  studied  the  excellent  pictures  represent 
ing  men  in  an  open  boat,  exposed  to  the  assaults 
of  long,  enraged  trout  flying  at  them  through  the 
open  air  with  open  mouth,  ever  ventures  with  his 
rod  upon  the  lonely  lakes  of  the  forest  without  a 
certain  terror,  or  ever  reads  of  the  exploits  of 
daring  fishermen  without  a  feeling  of  admiration 
for  their  heroism.  Most  of  their  adventures  are 

41 


42  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

thrilling,  and  all  of  them  are,  in  narration,  more 
or  less  unjust  to  the  trout :  in  fact,  the  object  of 
them  seems  to  be  to  exhibit,  at  the  expense  of 
the  trout,  the  shrewdness,  the  skill,  and  the  mus 
cular  power  of  the  sportsman.  My  own  simple 
story  has  few  of  these  recommendations. 

We  had  built  our  bark  camp  one  summer,  and 
were  staying  on  one  of  the  popular  lakes  of  the 
Saranac  region.  It  would  be  a  very  pretty  re 
gion  if  it  were  not  so  flat,  if  the  margins  of 
the  lakes  had  not  been  flooded  by  dams  at  the 
outlets, — which  have  killed  the  trees,  and  left  a 
rim  of  ghastly  dead-wood  like  the  swamps  of 
the  under- world  pictured  by  Dore's  bizarre  pen 
cil, —  and  if  the  pianos  at  the  hotels  were  in  tune. 
It  would  be  an  excellent  sporting-region  also  (for 
there  is  water  enough)  if  the  fish  commissioners 
would  stock  the  waters,  and  if  previous  hunters 
had  not  pulled  all  the  hair  and  skin  off  from  the 
deer's  tails.  Formerly  sportsmen  had  a  habit  of 
catching  the  deer  by  the  tails,  and  of  being 
dragged  in  mere  wantonness  round  and  round 
the  shores.  It  is  well  known,  that,  if  you  seize 


A  FIGHT  WITH  A   TROUT.  43 


a  deer  by  this  "  holt,'*  they  skin  will  slip  olf  like 
the  peel  from  a  banana.  This  reprehensible  prac 
tice  was  carried  so  far,  that  the  traveller  is  now 
hourly  pained  by  the  sight  of  peeled-tail  deer 
mournfully  sneaking  about  the  wood. 

We  had  been  hearing,  for  weeks,  of  a  small 
lake  in  the  heart  of  the  virgin  forest,  some  ten 
miles  from  our  camp,  which  was  alive  with  trout, 
unsophisticated,  hungry  trout :  the  inlet  to  it  was 
described  as  stiff  with  them.  In  my  imagination 
I  saw  them  lying  there  in  ranks  and  rows,  each 
a  foot  long,  three  tiers  deep,  a  solid  mass.  The 
lake  had  never  been  visited,  except  by  stray 
sable-hunters  in  the  winter,  and  was  known  as 
the  Unknown  Pond.  I  determined  to  explore 
it;  fully  expecting,' however,  that  it  would  prove 
to  be  a  delusion,  as  such  mysterious  haunts  of 
the  trout  usually  are.  Confiding  *my  purpose  to 
Luke,  we  secrctl}'  made  our  preparations,  and 
stole  away  from  the  shanty  oni3  morning  at  day 
break.  Each  of  us  carried  a  boat,  a  pair  of 
blankets,  a  sack  of  bread,  pork,  and  maple- 
sugar  ;  while  I  had  my  case  of  rods,  creel,  and 


44  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

book  of  flies,  and  Luke  had  an  axe  and  the 
kitchen  utensils.  We  think  nothing  of  loads  of 
this  sort  in  the  woods. 

Five  miles  through  a  tamarack-swanip  brought 
us  to  the  inlet  of  Unknown  Pond,  upon  which 
we  embarked  our  fleet,  and  paddled  down  its 
vagrant  waters.  They  were  at  first  sluggish, 
winding  among  triste  fir-trees,  but  gradually 
developed  a  strong  current.  At  the  end  of 
three  miles  a  loud  roar  ahead  warned  us  that 
wre  were  approaching  rapids,  falls,  and  cascades. 
We  paused.  The  danger  was  unknown.  We 
had  our  choice  of  shouldering  our  loads  and 
making  a  detour  through  the  woods,  or  of 
"  shooting  the  rapids."  Naturally  we  chose  the 
more  dangerous  course.  Shooting  the  rapids 
has  often  been  described,  and  I  will  not  repeat 
the  description  here.  It  is  needless  to  say  that 
I  drove  my  frail  bark  through  the  boiling  rapids, 
over  the  successive  water-falls,  amid  rocks  and 
vicious  eddies,  and  landed,  half  a  mile  below, 
with  whitened  hair  and  a  boat  half  full  of  water ; 
and  that  the  guide  was  upset,  and  boat,  contents, 
and  man  were  strewn  along  the  shore. 


A  FIGHT  WITH  A   TROUT.  45 

After  this  common  experience  we  went  quickly 
on  our  journe}',  and,  a  couple  of  hours  before 
sundown,  reached  the  lake.  If  I  live  to  my 
dying-day,  I  never  shall  forget  its  appearance. 
The  lake  is  almost  an  exact  circle,  about  a  quar 
ter  of  a  mile  in  diameter.  The  forest  about  it 
was  untouched  by  axe,  and  unkilled  by  artificial 
flooding.  The  azure  water  had  a  perfect  setting 
of  evergreens,  in  which  all  the  shades  of  the 
fir,  the  balsam,  the  pine,  and  the  spruce,  were 
perfectly  blended  ;  and  at  intervals  on  the  shore 
in  the  emerald  rim  blazed  the  ruby  of  the  car 
dinal-flower.  It  was  at  once  evident  that  the 
unruffled  waters  had  never  been  vexed  by  the 
keel  of  a  boat.  But  what  chiefly  attracted  my 
attention,  and  amused  me,  was  the  boiling  of 
the  water,  the  bubbling  and  breaking,  as  if  the 
lake  were  a  vast  kettle,  with  a  fire  underneath. 
A  t}TO  would  have  been  astonished  at  this  com 
mon  phenomenon ;  but  sportsmen  will  at  OUCP. 
understand  me  when  I  say  that  the  water  boiled 
with  the  breaking  trout.  I  studied  the  surface 
for  some  time  to  see  upon  what  sort  of  flies 


46  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

they  were  feeding,  in  order  to  suit  my  cast  to 
their  appetites ;  but  they  seemed  to  be  at  play 
rather  than  feeding,  leaping  high  in  the  air  in 
graceful  curves,  and  tumbling  about  each  other 
as  we  see  them  in  the  Adirondack  pictures. 

It  is  well  known  that  no  person  who  regards 
his  reputation  will  ever  kill  a  trout  with  any 
thing  but  a  fly.  It  requires  some  training  on 
the  part  of  the  trout  to  take  to  this  method. 
The  uncultivated,  unsophisticated  trout  in  unfre 
quented  waters  prefers  the  bait ;  and  the  rural 
people,  whose  sole  object  in  going  a-fishing  ap 
pears  to  be  to  catch  fish,  indulge  them  in  their 
primitive  taste  for  the  worm.  No  sportsman, 
however,  will  use  any  thing  but  a  fly,  except 
he  happens  to  be  alone. 

While  Luke  launched  my  boat,  and  arranged 
his  seat  in  the  stern,  I  prepared  my  rod  and 
line.  The  rod  is  a  bamboo,  weighing  seven 
ounces,  which  has  to  be  spliced  with  a  winding 
of  silk  thread  every  time  it  is  used.  This  is  a 
tedious  process ;  but,  by  fastening  the  joints  in 
this  way,  a  uniform  spring  i/3  secured  in  the  rod. 


A  FIGHT  WITH  A   TROUT.  47 

No  one  devoted  to  high  art  would  think  of  using 
a  socket  joint.  My  line  was  forty  yards  of  un 
twisted  silk  upon  a  multiplying  reel.  The  "lead 
er"  (I  am  very  particular  about  my  leaders) 
had  been  made  to  order  from  a  domestic  animal 
with  which  I  had  been  acquainted.  The  fisher 
man  requires  as  good  a  catgut  as  the  violinist. 
The  interior  of  the  house-cat,  it  is  well  known, 
is  exceedingly  sensitive ;  but  it  may  not  be  so 
well  known  that  the  reason  why  some  cats  leave 
the  room  in  distress  when  a  piano-forte  is  played 
is  because  the  two  instruments  are  not  in  the 
same  key,  and  the  vibrations  of  the  chords  of  the 
one  are  in  discord  with  the  catgut  of  the  other. 
On  six  feet  of  this  superior  article  I  fixed  three 
artificial  flies,  —  a  simple  brown  hackle,  a  gray 
bod}T  with  scarlet  wings,  and  one  of  my  own 
invention,  which  I  thought  would  be  new  to  the 
most  experienced  fty-catcher.  The  trout-fl}*  docs 
not  resemble  an}r  known  species  of  insect.  It 
is  a  "conventionalized"  creation,  as  we  say  of 
ornamentation.  The  theory  is,  that,  Iry-fishirig 
being  a  high  art,  the  fly  must  not  be  a  tame 

OK    THK 

UNIVERSITY 


48  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

imitation  of  nature,  but  an  artistic  suggestion  of 
it.  It  requires  an  artist  to  construct  one  ;  and 
not  every  bungler  can  take  a  bit  of  red  flannel, 
a  peacock's  feather,  a  flash  of  tinsel  thread,  a 
cock's  plume,  a  section  of  a  hen's  wing,  and 
fabricate  a  tiny  object  that  will  not  look  like 
any  fly,  but  still  will  suggest  the  universal  con 
ventional  fly. 

I  took  my  stand  in  the  centre  of  the  tipsy 
boat ;  and  Luke  shoved  off,  and  slowly  paddled 
towards  some  lity-pads,  while  I  began  casting, 
nnlimbering  my  tools,  as  it  were.  The  fish  had 
all  disappeared.  I  got  out,  perhaps,  fifty  feet 
of  line,  with  no  response,  and  gradually  in 
creased  it  to  one  hundred.  It  is  not  difficult  to 
learn  to  cast ;  but  it  is  difficult  to  learn  not  to 
snap  off  the  flies  at  every  throw.  Of  this,  how 
ever,  we  will  not  speak.  I  continued  casting  for 
some  moments,  until  I  became  satisfied  that 
there  had  been  a  miscalculation.  Either  the 
trout  were  too  green  to  know  what  I  was  at,  or 
they  were  dissatisfied  with  my  offers.  I  reeled 
in,  and  changed  the  flies  (that  is,  the  fly  that  was 


A  FIGHT  WITH  A   TROUT.  49 

not  snapped  off).  After  studying  the  color  of 
the  sk}',  of  the  water,  and  of  the  foliage,  and  the 
moderated  light  of  the  afternoon,  I  put  on  a 
series  of  beguilers,  all  of  a  subdued  brilliancy, 
in  harmony  with  the  approach  of  evening.  At 
the  second  cast,  which  was  a  short  one,  I  saw  a 
splash  where  the  leader  fell,  and  gave  an  excited 
jerk.  The  next  instant  I  perceived  the  game, 
and  did  not  need  the  unfeigned  "  dam  "  of  Luke 
to  convince  me  that  I  had  snatched  his  felt  hat 
from  his  head,  and  deposited  it  among  the  lilies. 
Discouraged  by  this,  we  whirled  about,  and  pad 
dled  over  to  the  inlet,  where  a  little  ripple  was 
visible  in  the  tinted  light.  At  the  very  first  cast 
I  saw  that  the  hour  had  come.  Three  trout 
leaped  into  the  air.  The  danger  of  this  ma- 
noauvre  all  fishermen  understand.  It  is  one  of 
the  commonest  in  the  woods :  three  heavy  trout 
taking  hold  at  once,  rushing  in  different  direc 
tions,  smash  the  tackle  into  flinders.  I  evaded 
this  catch,  and  threw  again.  I  recall  the  mo 
ment.  A  hermit  thrush,  on  the  tip  of  a  balsam, 
uttered  his  long,  liquid,  evening  note.  Happen- 


50  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

ing  to  look  over  my  shoulder,  I  saw  the  peak  of 
Marcy  gleam  rosy  in  the  sky  (I  can't  help  it  that 
Marcy  is  fifty  miles  off,  and  cannot  be  seen  from 
this  region :  these  incidental  touches  are  always 
used) .  The  hundred  feet  of  silk  swished  through 
the  air,  and  the  tail-fly  fell  as  lightly  on  the  water 
as  a  three-cent-piece  (which  no  slamming  will 
give  the  weight  of  a  ten)  drops  upon  the  contri 
bution-plate.  Instantly  there  was  a  rush,  a 
swirl.  I  struck,  and  "  Got  him,  by —  !  "  Never 
mind  w^hat  Luke  said  I  got  him  by.  "  Out  on  a 
fly  !  "  continued  that  irreverent  guide  ;  but  I  told 
him  to  back  water,  and  make  for  the  centre  of 
the  lake.  The  trout,  as  soon  as  he  felt  the  prick 
of  the  hook,  was  off  like  a  shot,  and  took  out 
the  whole  of  the  line  with  a  rapidity  that  made 
it  smoke.  u  Give  him  the  butt !  "  shouted  Luke. 
It  is  the  usual  remark  in  such  an  emergenc3\  I 
gave  him  the  butt ;  and,  recognizing  the  fact  and 
my  spirit,  the  trout  at  once  sank  to  the  bottom, 
and  sulked.  It  is  the  most  dangerous  mood  of  a 
trout ;  for  you  cannot  tell  what  he.  will  do  next. 
We  reeled  up  a  little,  and  waited  five  minutes  for 


A  FIGHT  WITH  A 


him  to  reflect.  A  tightening  of  the  line  enraged 
him,  and  he  soon  developed  his  tactics.  Coming 
to  the  surface,  he  made  straight  for  the  boat 
faster  than  I  could  reel  in,  and  evidently  with 
hostile  intentions.  "  Look  out  for  him  !  "  cried 
Luke  as  he  came  flying  in  the  air.  I  evaded 
him  by  dropping  flat  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat ; 
and,  when  I  picked  my  traps  up,  he  was  spinning 
across  the  lake  as  if  he  had  a  new  idea :  but  the 
line  was  still  fast.  He  did  not  run  far.  I  gave 
him  the  butt  again  ;  a  thing  he  seemed  to  hate, 
even  as  a  gift.  In  a  moment  the  evil-minded 
fish,  lashing  the  water  in  his  rage,  was  coming 
back  again,  making  straight  for  the  boat  as 
before.  Luke,  who  was  used  to  these  en 
counters,  having  read  of  them  in  the  writings  of 
travellers  he  had  accompanied,  raised  his  paddle 
in  self-defence.  The  trout  left  the  water  about 
ten  feet  from  the  boat,  and  came  directly  at  me 
with  fiery  e}*es,  his  speckleji  sides  flashing  like  a 
meteor.  I  dodged  as  he  whisked  by  with  a 
vicious  slap  of  his  bifurcated  tail,  and  nearly 
upset  the  boat.  The  line  was  of  course  slack ; 


52  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

and  the  danger  was  that  he  would  entangle  it 
about  me,  and  carry  away  a  leg.  This  was  evi 
dently  his  game ;  but  I  untangled  it,  and  only 
lost  a  breast-button  or  two  by  the  swiftly-moving 
string.  The  trout  plunged  into  the  water  with  i 
hissing  sound,  and  went  away  again  with  all  the 
line  on  the  reel.  More  butt ;  more  indignation 
on  the  part  of  the  captive.  The  contest  had  now 
been  going  on  for  half  an  hour,  and  I  was  get 
ting  exhausted.  We  had  been  back  and  forth 
across  the  lake,  and  round  and  round  the  lake. 
What  I  feared  was,  that  the  trout  would  start  up 
the  inlet,  and  wreck  us  in  the  bushes.  But  he 
had  a  new  fanc}^,  and  began  the  execution  of  a 
manoeuvre  which  I  had  never  read  of.  Instead 
of  coming  straight  towards  me,  he  took  a  large 
circle,  swimming  rapidly,  and  gradually  contract 
ing  his  orbit.  I  reeled  in,  and  kept  my  eye  on 
him.  Round  and  round  he  went,  narrowing  his 
circle.  I  began  to  suspect  the  game  ;  which  was, 
to  twist  my  head  off.  When  he  had  reduced  the 
radius  of  his  circle  to  about  twenty-five  feet,  he 
struck  a  tremendous  pace  through  the  water.  It 


A  FIGHT  WITH  A   TROUT.  53 

would  be  false  modesty  in  a  sportsman  to  say 
that  I  was  not  equal  to  the  occasion.  Instead  of 
turning  round  with  him,  as  he  expected,  I  stepped 
to  the  bow,  braced  myself,  and  let  the  boat 
swing.  Round  went  the  fish,  and  round  we  went 
like  a  top.  I  saw  a  line  of  Mount  Marcys  all 
round  the  horizon ;  the  rosy  tint  in  the  west 
made  a  broad  band  of  pink  along  the  sky  above 
the  tree-tops ;  the  evening  star  was  a  perfect 
circle  of  light,  a  hoop  of  gold  in  the  heavens. 
We  whirled  and  reeled,  and  reeled  and  whirled. 
I  was  willing  to  give  the  malicious  beast  butt  and 
line,  and  all,  if  he  would  only  go  the  other  way 
for  a  change. 

When  I  came  to  myself,  Luke  was  gaffing  the 
trout  at  the  boat-side.  After  we  had  got  him  in, 
and  dressed  him,  he  weighed  three-quarters  of  a 
pound.  Fish  always  lose  by  being  "  got  in  and 
dressed."  It  is  best  to  weigh  them  while  they 
are  in  the  water.  The  only  realty  large  one  I 
ev  51*  caught  got  awa}'  with  in}*  leader  when  I  first 
struck  him.  He  weighed  ten  pounds. 


IV. 


A-HUNTING    OF   THE   DEER. 

jjF  civilization  owes  a  debt  of  gratitude  to 
the  self-sacrificing  sportsmen  who  have 
cleared  the  Adirondack  regions  of  cata 
mounts  and  savage  trout,  what  shall  be  said  of 
the  arm}T  which  has  so  nobly  relieved  them  of  the 
terror  of  the  deer?  The  deer-slayers  have  some 
what  celebrated  their  exploits  in  print ;  but  I 
think  that  justice  has  never  been  done  them. 

The  American  deer  in  the  wilderness,  left  to 
himself,  leads  a  comparatively  harmless  but 
rather  stupid  life,  with  only  such  excitement  as 
his  own  timid  fanc}T  raises.  It  was  very  seldom 
that  one  of  his  tribe  was  e^ten  by  the  North- 
American  tiger.  For  a  wild  animal  he  is  very 
domestic,  simple  in  his  tastes,  regular  in  his 

54 


A-IIUNTING  OF  THE  DEER.  55 

habits,  affectionate  in  his  family.  Unfortunately 
for  his  repose,  his  haunch  is  as  tender  as  his 
heart.  Of  all  wild  creatures  he  is  one  of  the  most 
graceful  in  action,  and  he  poses  with  the  skill 
of  an  experienced  model.  I  have  seen  the  goats 
on  Mount  Pentclicus  scatter  at  the  approach  of 
a  stranger,  climb  to  the  sharp  points  of  pro 
jecting  rocks,  and  attitudinize  in  the  most  self- 
conscious  manner,  striking  at  once  those  pictur 
esque  postures  against  the  sky  with  which  Oriental 
pictures  have  made  us  and  them  familiar.  But 
the  whole  proceeding  was  theatrical.  Greece  is 
the  home  of  art,  and  it  is  rare  to  find  an}r  thing 
there  natural  and  unstudied.  I  presume  that 
these  goats  have  no  nonsense  about  them  when 
the}*  are  alone  with  the  goat-herds,  an}T  more  than 
the  goat-herds  have,  except  when  they  come  to 
pose  in  the  studio  ;  but  the  long  ages  of  culture, 
the  presence  always  to  the  eye  of  the  best  models 
and  the  forms  of  immortal  beauty,  the  heroic 
friezes  of  the  Temple  of  Theseus,  the  marble  pro 
cessions  of  sacrificial  animals,  have  had  a  steady 
moulding,  educating  influence  equal  to  a  society 


56  IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

of  decorative  art  upon  the  people  and  the  animals 
who  have  dwelt  in  this  artistic  atmosphere.  The 
Attic  goat  has  become  an  artificially  artistic 
being ;  though  of  course  he  is  not  now  what  he 
was,  as  a  poser,  in  the  days  of  Polycletus.  There 
is  opportunity  for  a  very  instructive  essay  by  Mr. 
E.  A.  Freeman  on  the  decadence  of  the  Attic 
goat  under  the  influence  of  the  Ottoman  Turk. 

The  American  deer,  in  the  free  atmosphere  of 
our  county,  and  as  yet  untouched  by  our  deco 
rative  art,  is  without  self-consciousness,  and  all 
his  attitudes  are  free  and  unstudied.  The  favor 
ite  position  of  the  deer  —  his  fore-feet  in  the 
shallow  margin  of  the  lake,  among  the  lily-pads, 
his  antlers  thrown  back  and  his  nose  in  the  air  at 
the  moment  he  hears  the  stealthy  breaking  of  a 
twig  in  the  forest  —  is  still  spirited  and  graceful, 
and  wholly  unaffected  by  the  pictures  of  him 
which  the  artists  have  put  upon  canvas. 

Wherever  you  go  in  the  Northern  forest,  you 
will  find  deer-paths.  So  plainly  marked  and 
well-trodden  are  they,  that  it  is  easy  to  mistake 
them  for  trails  made  by  hunters ;  but  he  who 


A-IIUNTING   OF  THE  DEER.  57 

follows  one  of  them  is  soon  in  difficulties.  He 
may  find  himself  climbing  through  cedar-thickets 
an  almost  inaccessible  cliff,  or  immersed  in  the 
intricacies  of  a  marsh.  The  "run,"  in  one  di 
rection,  will  lead  to  water ;  but,  in  the  other,  it 
climbs  the  highest  hills,  to  which  the  deer  retires, 
for  safety  and  repose,  in  impenetrable  thickets 
The  hunters,  in  winter,  find  them  congregated  in 
44  yards,"  where  they  can  be  surrounded  and  shot 
as  easily  as  our  troops  shoot  Comanche  women 
and  children  in  their  winter  villages.  These 
little  paths  are  full  of  pit-falls  among  the  roots 
and  stones  ;  and,  nimble  as  the  deer  is,  he  some 
times  breaks  one  of  his  slender  legs  in  them. 
Yet  he  knows  how  to  treat  himself  without  a 
surgeon.  I  knew  of  a  tame  deer  in  a  settlement 
in  the  edge  of  the  forest  who  had  the  misfortune 
to  break  her  leg.  She  immediately  disappeared 
with  a  delicacy  rare  in  an  invalid,  and  was  not 
seen  for  two  weeks.  Her  friends  had  given  her 
up,  supposing  that  she  had  dragged  herself  away 
into  the  depths  of  the  woods,  and  died  of  starva 
tion  ;  when  one  day  she  returned,  cured  of 


ft  8  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

lameness,  but  thin  as  a  virgin  shadow.  She  had 
the  sense  to  shun  the  doctor  ;  to  lie  down  in  some 
safe  place,  and  patiently  wait  for  her  leg  to  heal. 
I  have  observed  in  many  of  the  more  refined 
animals  this  sort  of  slryness,  and  reluctance  to 
give  trouble,  which  excite  our  admiration  when 
noticed  in  mankind. 

The  deer  is  called  a  timid  animal,  and  taunted 
with  possessing  courage  only  when  he  is  "at 
bay  ; ' '  the  stag  will  fight  when  he  can  no  longer 
flee  ;  and  the  doe  will  defend  her  young  in  the 
face  of  murderous  enemies.  The  deer  gets  little 
credit  for  this  eleventh-hour  bravery.  But  I 
think,  that,  in  any  truly  Christian  condition  of 
societj^,  the  deer  would  not  be  conspicuous  for 
cowardice.  I  suppose  that  if  the  American  girl, 
even  as  she  is  described  in  foreign  romances, 
were  pursued  by  bull-dogs,  and  fired  at  from 
behind  fences  every  time  she  ventured  out 
doors,  she  would  become  timid,  and  reluctant  to 
go  abroad.  When  that  golden  era  comes  which 
the  poets  think  is  behind  us,  and  the  prophets  de 
clare  is  about  to  be  ushered  in  by  the  opening  of 


A-IIUNTING   OF  THE  DEER.  59 

the  ' '  vials, ' '  and  the  killing  of  everybody  who  docs 
not  believe  as  those  nations  believe  which  have 
the  most  cannon ;  when  we  all  live  in  real  con 
cord, — perhaps  the  gentle-hearted  deer  will  be 
respected,  and  will  find  that  men  are  not  more 
savage  to  the  weak  than  are  the  cougars  and 
panthers.  If  the  little  spotted  fawn  can  think, 
it  must  seem  to  her  a  queer  world  in  which  the 
advent  of  innocence  is  hailed  by  the  ba}*ing  of 
fierce  hounds  and  the  "  ping  "  of  the  rifle. 

Hunting  the  deer  in  the  Adirondacks  is  con 
ducted  in  the  most  manly  fashion.  There  are 
several  methods,  and  in  none  of  them  is  a  fair 
chance  to  the  deer  considered.  A  favorite  meth 
od  with  the  natives  is  practised  in  winter,  and 
is  called  by  them  "  still  hunting."  My  idea  of 
still  hunting  is  for  one  man  to  go  alone  into  the 
forest,  look  about  for  a  deer,  put  his  wits  fairly 
against  the  wits  of  the  keen-scented  animal,  and 
kill  his  deer,  or  get  lost  in  the  attempt.  There 
seems  to  be  a  sort  of  fairness  about  this.  It  is 
private  assassination,  tempered  with  a  little  un 
certainty  about  finding  }'our  man.  The  still  hunt- 


60  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

ing  of  the  natives  has  all  the  romance  and  clangci 
attending  the  slaughter  of  sheep  in  an  abattoir. 
As  the  snow  gets  deep,  many  deer  congregate 
in  the  depths  of  the  forest,  and  keep  a  place 
trodden  down,  which  grows  larger  as  they 
tramp  down  the  snow  in  search  of  food.  In 
time  this  refuge  becomes  a  sort  of  "yard," 
surrounded  by  unbroken  snow-banks.  The  hunt 
ers  then  make  their  way  to  this  retreat  on  snow- 
shoes,  and  from  the  top  of  the  banks  pick  off 
the  deer  at  leisure  with  their  rifles,  and  haul 
them  away  to  market,  until  the  enclosure  is  pretty 
much  emptied.  This  is  one  of  the  surest  methods 
of  exterminating  the  deer ;  it  is  also  one  of  the 
most  merciful ;  and,  being  the  plan  adopted  by 
our  government  for  civilizing  the  Indian,  it  ought 
to  be  popular.  The  only  people  who  object  to  it 
are  the  summer  sportsmen.  They  naturally  want 
some  pleasure  out  of  the  death  of  the  deer. 

Some  of  our  best  sportsmen,  who  desire  to 
protract  the  pleasure  of  sla}'ing  deer  through  as 
many  seasons  as  possible,  object  to  the  practice 
of  the  hunters,  who  make  it  their  chief  business 


A-IIUNTING  OF  THE  DEER.  Cl 

to  slaughter  as  many  deer  in  a  camping-season  as 
they  can.  Their  own  rule,  they  say,  i-  to  kill  a 
deer  only  when  they  need  venison  to  eat.  Their 
excuse  is  specious.  What  right  have  these  soph 
ists  to  put  themselves  into  a  desert  place,  out 
of  the  reach  of  provisions,  and  then  ground  a 
right  to  sla}T  deer  on  their  own  improvidence? 
If  it  is  necessary  for  these  people  to  have  any 
thing  to  eat,  which  I  doubt,  it  is  not  necessary 
that  they  should  have  the  luxury  of  venison. 

One  of  the  most  picturesque  methods  of  hunt 
ing  the  poor  deer  is  called  "floating."  The 
person,  with  murder  in  his  heart,  chooses  a 
cloudy  night,  seats  himself,  rifle  in  hand,  in  a 
canoe,  which  is  noiselessly  paddled  by  the  guide, 
and  explores  the  shore  of  the  lake  or  the  dark 
inlet.  In  the  bow  of  the  boat  is  a  light  in  a 
u  jack,"  the  rays  of  which  are  shielded  from  the 
boat  and  its  occupants.  A  deer  comes  down  to 
feed  upon  the  lil}'-pads.  The  boat  approaches 
him.  He  looks  up,  and  stands  a  moment,  terri 
fied  or  fascinated  by  the  bright  flames.  In  that 
moment  the  sportsman  is  supposed  to  shoot  the 


62  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

cleer.  As  an  historical  fact,  his  hand  usually 
shakes,  so  that  he  misses  the  animal,  or  only 
wounds  him ;  and  the  stag  limps  away  to  die 
after  days  of  suffering.  Usually,  however,  the 
hunters  remain  out  all  night,  get  stiff  from  cold 
and  the  cramped  position  in  the  boat,  and,  when 
they  return  in  the  morning  to  camp,  cloud  their 
future  existence  by  the  assertion  that  they  ' '  heard 
a  big  buck"  moving  along  the  shore,  but  the 
people  in  camp  made  so  much  noise  that  he  was 
frightened  off. 

By  all  odds,  the  favorite  and  prevalent  mode 
is  hunting  with  dogs.  The  dogs  do  the  hunting, 
the  men  the  killing.  The  hounds  are  sent  into 
the  forest  to  rouse  the  deer,  and  drive  him  from 
his  cover.  They  climb  the  mountains,  strike  the 
trails,  and  go  baying  and  yelping  on  the  track 
of  the  poor  beast.  The  deer  have  their  estab 
lished  run-wa}Ts,  as  I  said ;  and,  when  they  are 
disturbed  in  their  retreat,  they  are  certain  to 
attempt  to  escape  by  following  one  which  in 
variably  leads  to  some  lake  or  stream.  All  that 
the  hunter  has  to  do  is  to  seat  himself  by  one  of 


A-HUNTING  OF  THE  DEER.  C3 

these  run-ways,  or  sit  in  a  boat  on  the  lake,  and 
wait  the  coming  of  the  pursued  deer.  The 
frightened  beast,  fleeing  from  the  unreasoning 
brutality  of  the  hounds,  will  often  seek  the  open 
country,  with  a  mistaken  confidence  in  the  hu 
manity  of  man.  To  kill  a  deer  when  he  suddenly 
passes  one  on  a  run-way  demands  presence  of 
mind,  and  quickness  of  aim:  to  shoot  him  from 
the  boat,  after  he  has  plunged  panting  into  the 
lake,  requires  the  rare  ability  to  hit  a  moving 
object  the  size  of  a  deer's  head  a  few  rods  dis 
tant.  Either  exploit  is  sufficient  to  make  a  hero 
of  a  common  man.  To  paddle  up  to  the  swim 
ming  deer,  and  cut  his  throat,  is  a  sure  means 
of  getting  venison,  and  has  its  charms  for  some. 
Even  women,  and  doctors  of  divinity,  have  en 
joyed  this  exquisite  pleasure.  It  cannot  be  denied 
that  we  are  so  constituted  by  a  wise  Creator  as  to 
feel  a  delight  in  killing  a  wild  animal  which  we 
do  not  experience  in  killing  a  tame  one. 

The  pleasurable  excitement  of  a  deer-hunt  has 
never,  I  believe,  been  regarded  from  the  deer's 
point  of  view.  I  happen  to  be  in  a  position, 


64  I2V  THE  WILDERNESS. 

by  reason  of  a  lucky  Adirondack  experience,  to 
present  it  in  that  light.  I  am  sony  if  this  intro 
duction  to  my  little  story  has  seemed  long  to  the 
reader  :  it  is  too  late  now  to  skip  it ;  but  he  can 
recoup  himself  by  omitting  the  stor}*. 
.  Early  on  the  morning  of  the  23d  of  August, 
1877,  a  doe  was  feeding  on  Basin  Mountain. 
The  night  had  been  warm  and  shower}T,  aud  the 
morning  opened  in  an  undecided  way.  The 
wind  was  southerly :  it  is  what  the  deer  call  a 
dog- wind,  having  come  to  know  quite  well  the 
meaning  of  "a  southerly  wind  and  a  cloudy 
sky."  The  sole  companion  of  the  doe  was  her 
only  child,  a  charming  little  fawn,  whose  brown 
coat  was  just  beginning  to  be  mottled  with  the 
beautiful  spots  which  make  this  young  creature 
as  lovely  as  the  gazelle.  The  buck,  its  father, 
had  been  that  night  on  a  long  tramp  across  the 
mountain  to  Clear  Pond,  and  •  had  not  yet  re 
turned  :  he  went  ostensibly  to  feed  on  the  suc 
culent  lily-pads  there.  "  He  feedeth  among  the 
lilies  until  the  day  break  and  the  shadows  flee 
away,  and  he  should  be  here  by  this  hour ;  but 


A-IIUNTING  OF  THE  DEER.  65 

he  cometh  not,"  she  said,  "leaping  upon  the 
mountains ,  skipping  upon  the  hills . ' '  Clear  Pond 
was  too  far  off  for  the  }'oung  mother  to  go  with 
her  fawn  for  a  night's  pleasure.  It  was  a  fashion 
able  watering-place  at  this  season  among  .the 
deer ;  and  the  doe  may  have  remembered,  not 
without  uneasiness,  the  moonlight  meetings  of  a 
frivolous  society  there.  But  the  buck  did  not 
come :  he  was  very  likely  sleeping  under  one  of 
the  ledges  on  Tight  Nippin.  Was  he  alone?  "I 
charge  3*ou,  by  the  roes  and  by  the  hinds  of  the 
field,  that  ye  stir  not  nor  awake  my  love  tih1  he 
please.'' 

The  doe  was  feeding,  daintily  cropping  the 
tender  leaves  of  the  young  shoots,  and  turning 
from  time  to  time  to  regard  her  offspring.  The 
fawn  had  taken  his  morning  meal,  and  now  lay 
curled  up  on  a  bed  of  moss,  watching  contented- 
lj",  with  his  large,  soft  brown  eyes,  every  move 
ment  of  his  mother.  The  great  eyes  followed 
her  with  an  alert  entreaty ;  and,  if  the  mother 
stepped  a  pace  or  two  farther  awa}r  in  feeding, 
the  fawn  made  a  half-movement,  as  if  to  rise  and 


66  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

follow  her.  You  see,  she  was  his  sole  depend 
ence  in  all  the  world.  But  he  was  quickty  re-as 
sured  when  she  turned  her  gaze  on  him ;  and  if, 
in  alarm,  he  uttered  a  plaintive  cry,  she  bounded 
to  him  at  once,  and,  with  every  demonstration  of 
affection,  licked  his  mottled  skin  till  it  shone 
again. 

It  was  a  pretty  picture,  —  maternal  love  on  the 
one  part,  and  happj'  trust  on  the  other.  The 
doe  was  a  beauty,  and  would  have  been  so  con 
sidered  anywhere,  as  graceful  and  winning  a 
creature  as  the  sun  that  day  shone  on,  —  slender 
limbs,  not  too  heavy  flanks,  round  body,  and 
aristocratic  head,  with  small  ears,  and  luminous, 
intelligent,  affectionate  eyes.  How  alert,  supple, 
free,  she  was !  What  untaught  grace  in  every 
movement !  What  a  charming  pose  when  she 
lifted  her  head,  and  turned  it  to  regard  her  child  ! 
You  would  have  had  a  companion-picture,  if  you 
had  seen,  as  I  saw  that  morning,  a  baby  kicking 
about  among  the  dry  pine-needles  on  a  ledge 
above  the  Ausable,  in  the  valley  below,  while  its 
vouDg  mother  sat  near,  with  an  easel  before  her, 


A-HUNTING  OF  THE  DEER.  G7 

touching  in  the  color  of  a  reluctant  landscape, 
giving  a  quick  look  at  the  sky  and  the  outline  of 
the  Twin  Mountains,  and  bestowing  every  third 
glance  upon  the  laughing  boy,  —  art  in  its  in 
fancy. 

The  doe  lifted  her  head  a  little  with  a  quick 
motion,  and  turned  her  ear  to  the  south.  Had 
she  heard  something  ?  Probably  it  was  oul}r  the 
south  wind  in  the  balsams.  There  was  silence 
all  about  in  the  forest.  If  the  doe  had  heard 
any  thing,  it  was  one  of  the  distant  noises  of  the 
world.  There  are  in  the  woods  occasional  moan- 
ings,  premonitions  of  change,  which  are  inaudi 
ble  to  the  dull  ears  of  men,  but  which,  I  have  no 
doubt,  the  forest-folk  hear  and  understand.  If 
the  doe's  suspicions  were  excited  for  an  instant, 
the}'  were  gone  as  soon.  With  an  affectionate 
glance  at  her  fawn,  she  continued  picking  up  her 
breakfast. 

But  suddenly  she  started,  head  erect,  cyca 
dilated,  a  tremor  in  her  limbs.  She  took  a  step  ; 
she  turned  her  head  to  the  south ;  she  listened 
intently.  There  was  a  sound, — a  distant,  pro- 


68  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

longed  note,  bell-toned,  pervading  the  woods,  sliak 
ing  the  air  in  smooth  vibrations.  It  was  repeated . 
The  doe  had  no  doubt  now.  She  shook  like  the 
sensitive  mimosa  when  a  footstep  approaches. 
It  was  the  baying  of  a  hound  !  It  was  far  off,  — 
at  the  foot  of  the  mountain.  Time  enough  to 
fl}r;  time  enough  to  put  miles  between  her  and 
the  hound,  before  he  should  come  upon  her  fresh 
trail ;  time  enough  to  escape  awajr  through  the 
dense  forest,  and  hide  in  the  recesses  of  Panther 
Gorge ;  yes,  time  enough.  But  there  was  the 
fawn.  The  cry  of  the  hound  was  repeated,  more 
distinct  this  time.  The  mother  instinctively 
bounded  away  a  few  paces.  The  fawn  started 
up  with  an  anxious  bleat :  the  doe  turned ;  ^hshe 
came  back  ;  she  couldn't  leave  it.  She  bent  over 
it,  and  licked  it,  and  seemed  to  say,  u  Come, 
my  child :  we  are  pursued:  we  must  go."  She 
walked  away  towards  the  west,  and  the  little 
thing  skipped  after  her.  It  was  slow  going  for 
the  slender  legs,  over  the  fallen  logs,  and  through 
tho  rasping  bushes.  The  doe  bounded  in  ad 
vance,  and  waited  :  the  fawn  scrambled  after  her, 


A-IWNTING  OF  TITE  DEER.  G9 

slipping  and  tumbling  along,  very  groggy  yet  on 
its  legs,  and  whining  a  good  deal  because  its 
mother  kept  always  moving  away  from  it.  The 
fawn  evidently  did  not  hear  the  hound  :  the  little 
innocent  would  even  have  looked  sweetly  at 
the  dog,  and  tried  to  make  friends  with  it,  if  the 
brute  had  been  rushing  upon  him.  By  all  the 
means  at  her  command  the  doe  urged  her  young 
one  on  ;  but  it  wras  slow  work.  She  might  haA'e 
been  a  mile  away  while  they  were  making  a  few 
rods.  Whenever  the  fawn  caught  up,  he  was 
quite  content  to  frisk  about.  lie  wanted  more 
breakfast,  for  one  thing  ;  and  his  mother  wouldn't 
stand  still.  She  moved  on  continually ;  and  his 
weak  legs  were  tangled  in  the  roots  of  the  narrow 
deer-path. 

Shortly  came  a  sound  that  threw  the  doe  into 
a  panic  of  terror,  —  a  short,  sharp  yelp,  followed 
b}'  a  prolonged  howl,  caught  up  and  re-echoed  b}' 
other  hayings  along  the  mountain-side.  The  doe 
knew  what  that  meant.  One  hound  had  caught 
her  trail,  and  the  whole  pack  responded  to  the 
u  view-halloo."  The  danger  was  certain  now: 


70  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

it  was  near.  She  could  not  crawl  on  in  this 
way :  the  dogs  would  soon  be  upon  them.  She 
turned  again  for  flight :  the  fawn,  scrambling 
after  her,  tumbled  over,  and  bleated  piteously. 
The  baying,  emphasized  now  by  the  yelp  of  cer 
tainty,  came  nearer.  Flight  with  the  fawn  was 
impossible.  The  doe  returned  and  stood  by  it, 
head  erect,  and  nostrils  distended.  She  stood 
perfectly  still,  but  trembling.  Perhaps  she  was 
thinking.  The  fawn  took  advantage  of  the  situa 
tion,  and  began  to  draw  his  luncheon  ration. 
The  doe  seemed  to  have  made  up  her  mind.  She 
let  him  finish.  The  fawn,  having  taken  all  he. 
wanted,  lay  down  contentedly,  and  the  doe  licked 
him  for  a  moment.  Then,  with  the  swiftness  of 
a  bird,  she  dashed  awa}r,  and  in  a  moment  was 
lost  in  the  forest.  She  went  in  the  direction  of 
the  hounds. 

According  to  all  human  calculations,  she  was 
going  into  the  jaws  of  death.  So  she  was :  all 
human  calculations  are  selfish.  She  kept  straight 
on,  hearing  the  baying  every  moment  more  dis 
tinctly.  She  descended  the  slope  of  the  moun- 


A-IIUNTING   OF  THE  DEER.  71 

tain  until  she  reached  the  more  open  forest  of 
hard- wood.  It  was  freer  going  here,  and  the 
cry  of  the  pack  echoed  more  resoundingly  in  the 
great  spaces.  She  was  going  due  east,  when 
(judging  by  the  sound,  the  hounds  were  not  far 
off,  though  they  were  still  hidden  by  a  ridge)  'she 
turned  short  away  to  the  north,  and  kept  on  at  a 
good  pace.  In  five  minutes  more  she  heard  the 
sharp,  exultant  yelp  of  discover}',  and  then  the 
deep-mouthed  howl  of  pursuit.  The  hounds  had 
struck  her  trail  where  she  turned,  and  the  fawn 
was  safe. 

The  doe  was  in  good  running  condition,  the 
ground  was  not  bad,  and  she  felt  the  exhilaration 
of  the  chase.  For  the  moment,  fear  left  her,  and 
she  bounded  on  with  the  exaltation  of  triumph. 
For  a  quarter  of  an  hour  she  went  on  at  a  slap 
ping  pace,  clearing  the  moose-bushes  with  bound 
after  bound,  flying  over  the  fallen  logs,  pausing 
neither  for  brook  nor  ravine.  The  baj'ing  of  the 
hounds  grew  fainter  behind  her.  But  she  struck 
a  bad  piece  of  going,  a  dead-wood  slash.  It  was 
marvellous  to  see  her  skim  over  it,  leaping  among 


THE  WILDERNESS. 


its  intricacies,  and  not  breaking  her  slender  legs. 
No  other  living  animal  could  do  it.  But  it  was 
killing  work".  She  began  to  pant  fearfulty ;  she 
lost  ground.  The  baying  of  the  hounds  was  nea*  - 
er.  She  climbed  the  hard- wood  hill  at  a  slowej 
gait ;  but,  once  on  more  level,  free  ground,  hci 
breath  came  back  to  her,  and  she  stretched  away 
with  new  courage,  and  maybe  a  sort  of  contempl 
of  her  heavy  pursuers. 

After  running  at  high  speed  perhaps  half  a  mile 
farther,  it  occurred  to  her  that  it  would  be  safe 
now  to  turn  to  the  west,  and,  by  a  wide  circuit, 
seek  her  fawn.  But,  at  the  moment,  she  heard  a 
sound  that  chilled  her  heart.  It  was  the  cry  of 
a  hound  to  the  west  of  her.  The  crafty  brute 
had  made  the  circuit  of  the  slash,  and  cut  off  her 
retreat.  There  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  keep 
on  ;  and  on  she  went,  still  to  the  north,  with  the 
noise  of  the  pack  behind  her.  In  five  minutes 
more  she  had  passed  into  a  hillside  clearing. 
Cows  and  young  steers  were  grazing  there.  She 
heard  a  tinkle  of  bells.  Below  her,  down  the 
mountain-slope,  were  other  clearings,  broken  bv 


A-IIUNT1NG   OF   THE  DEEE. 


patches  of  woods.  Fences  intervened  ;  and  a  mile 
or  two  down  lay  the  valley,  the  shining  Ausaltle, 
and  the  peaceful  farm-houses.  That  wa}'  also  her 
hereditary  enemies  were.  Not  a  merciful  heart 
in  all  that  lovely  valley.  She  hesitated :  it  was 
only  for  an  instant.  She  must  cross  the  Slide- 
brook  Valley  if  possible,  and  gain  the  mountain 
opposite.  She  bounded  on  ;  she  stopped.  What 
was  that?  From  the  valley  ahead  came  the  cry 
of  a  searching  hound.  All  the  devils  were  loose 
this  morning.  Every  way  was  closed  but  one, 
and  that  led  straight  down  the  mountain  to  the 
cluster  of  houses.  Conspicuous  among  them  was 
a  slender  white  wooden  spire.  The  doe  did  not 
know  that  it  was  the  spire  of  a  Christian  chapel. 
But  perhaps  she  thought  that  human  pity  dwelt 
there,  and  would  be  more  merciful  than  the  teeth 
of  the  hounds. 

"  The  hounds  are  baying  on  my  track: 
O  white  man !  will  you  send  me  back  ?  " 

Tn  a  panic,  frightened  animals  will  alwa}'s  flee 
tc  human-kind  from  the  danger  of  more  savage 


74  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

foes.  They  alwajTs  make  a  mistake  in  doing  so. 
Perhaps  the  trait  is  the  survival  of  an  era  of 
peace  on  earth ;  perhaps  it  is  a  prophecy  of  the 
golden  age  of  the  future.  The  business  of  this 
age  is  murder, — the  slaughter  of  animals,  the 
slaughter  of  fellow-men,  by  the  wholesale.  Hila 
rious  poets  who  have  never  fired  a  gun  write 
hunting-songs,  —  Ti-ra-la  :  and  good  bishops 
write  war-songs,  — Ave  the  Czar! 

The  hunted  doe  went  down  the  "  open,"  clear 
ing  the  fences  splendidly,  flying  along  the  stony 
path.  It  was  a  beautiful  sight.  But  consider 
what  a  shot  it  was  !  If  the  deer,  now,  could  only 
have  been  caught !  No  doubt  there  were  tender 
hearted  people  in  the  valley  who  would  have 
spared  her  life,  shut  her  up  in  a  stable,  and 
petted  her.  Was  there  one  who  would  have  let 
her  go  back  to  her  waiting  fawn  ?  It  is  the  busi 
ness  of  civilization  to  tame  or  kill. 

The  doe  went  on.  She  left  the  saw-mill  on 
John's  Brook  to  her  right ;  she  turned  into  a 
wood-path.  As  she  approached  Slide  Brook,  she 
saw  a  boy  standing  by  a  tree  with  a  raised  rifle. 


A-IIUNTING  OF  THE  DEER.  75 

The  dogs  were  not  in  sight ;  but  she  could  hear 
them  coming  down  the  hill.  There  was  no  time 
for  hesitation.  With  a  tremendous  burst  of  speed 
she  cleared  the  stream,  and,  as  she  touched  the 
bank,  heard  the  "  ping"  of  a  rifle-bullet  in  the 
air  above  her.  The  cruel  sound  gave  wings  to 
the  poor  thing.  In  a  moment  more  she  was  in 
the  opening :  she  leaped  into  the  travelled  road. 
Which  way  ?  Below  her  in  the  wood  was  a  load 
of  hay :  a  man  and  a  boy,  with  pitchforks  in  their 
hands,  were  running  towards  her.  She  turned 
south,  and  flew  along  the  street.  The  town  was 
up.  Women  and  children  ran  to  the  doors  and 
windows ;  men  snatched  their  rifles ;  shots  were 
fired ;  at  the  big  boarding-houses,  the  summer 
boarders,  who  never  have  any  thing  to  do,  came 
out  and  cheered ;  a  camp-stool  was  thrown  from 
a  veranda.  Some  young  fellows  shooting  at  a 
mark  in  the  meadow  saw  the  ftying  deer,  and 
popped  away  at  her ;  but  they  were  accustomed 
to  a  mark  that  stood  still.  It  was  all  so  sudden ! 
There  were  twenty  people  who  were  just  going 
to  shoot  her;  when  the  doe  leaped  the  road 


76  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

fence,  and  went  away  across  a  marsh  toward  the 
foot-hills.  It  was  a  fearful  gantlet  to  run.  But 
nobody  except  the  deer  considered  it  in  that  light. 
Everybody  told  what  he  was  just  going  to  do ; 
everybodjr  wrho  had  seen  the  performance  was  a 
kind  of  hero,  —  eveiybod}T  except  the  deer.  For 
days  and  days  it  was  the  subject  of  conversa 
tion ;  and  the  summer  boarders  kept  their  guns 
at  hand,  expecting  another  deer  would  come  to 
be  shot  at. 

The  doe  went  away  to  the  foot-hills,  going  now 
slower,  and  evidently  fatigued,  if  not  frightened 
half  to  death.  Nothing  is  so  appalling  to  a  re 
cluse  as  half  a  mile  of  summer  boarders.  As 
the  deer  entered  the  thin  woods,  she  saw  a  rabble 
of  people  start  across  the  meadow  in  pursuit.  By 
this  time,  the  dogs,  panting,  and  lolling  out  their 
tongues,  came  swinging  along,  keeping  the  trail, 
like  stupids,  and  consequently  losing  ground  when 
the  deer  doubled.  But,  when  the  doe  had  got  into 
the  timber,  she  heard  the  savage  brutes  howling 
across  the  meadow.  (It  is  well  enough,  perhaps, 
to  say  that  nobody  offered  to  shoot  the  dogs.) 


A- HUNTING   OF  THE  DEER.  77 

The  courage  of  the  panting  fugitive  was  not 
gone :  she  was  game  to  the  tip  of  her  high-bred 
cars.  But  the  fearful  pace  at  which  she  had  just 
been  going  told  on  her.  Her  legs  trembled,  and 
her  heart  beat  like  a  trip-hammer.  She  slowed 
her  speed  perforce,  but  still  fled  industrious!}-  up 
the  right  bank  of  the  stream.  When  she  had 
gone  a  couple  of  miles,  and  the  dogs  were  evi 
dently  gaining  again,  she  crossed  the  broad,  deep 
brook,  climbed  the  steep  left  bank,  and  fled  on  in 
the  direction  of  the  Mount-Marcy  trail.  The 
fording  of  the  river  threw  the  hounds  off  for  a 
time.  She  knew,  by  their  uncertain  yelping  up 
and  down  the  opposite  bank,  that  she  had  a  little 
respite :  she  used  it,  however,  to  push  on  until 
the  baying  was  faint  in  her  ears ;  and  then  she 
dropped,  exhausted,  upon  the  ground. 

This  rest,  brief  as  it  was,  saved  her  life. 
Roused  again  by  the  baying  pack,  she  leaped  for 
ward  with  better  speed,  though  without  that  keen 
feeling  of  exhilarating  flight  that  she  had  in  the 
morning.  It  was  still  a  race  for  life  ;  but  the  odds 
were  in  her  favor,  she  thought.  She  did  not  ap- 


78  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

predate  the  dogged  persistence  of  the  hounds,  nor 
had  any  inspiration  told  her  that  the  race  is  not  to 
the  swift.  She  was  a  little  confused  in  her  mind 
where  to  go ;  but  an  instinct  kept  her  course 
to  the  left,  and  consequently  farther  away  from 
her  fawn.  Going  now  slower,  and  now  faster,  as 
the  pursuit  seemed  more  distant  or  nearer,  she 
kept  to  the  south-west,  crossed  the  stream  again, 
left  Panther  Gorge  on  her  right,  and  ran  on  by 
Ha}~stack  and  Sl^light  in  the  direction  of  the 
Upper  Ausable  Pond.  I  do  not  know  her  exact 
course  through  this  maze  of  mountains,  swamps, 
ravines,  and  frightful  wildernesses.  I  only  know 
that  the  poor  thing  worked  her  way  along  pain 
fully,  with  sinking  heart  and  unsteady  limbs, 
lying  down  "  dead  beat"  at  intervals,  and  then 
spurred  on  by  the  cry  of  the  remorseless  dogs, 
until,  late  in  the  afternoon,  she  staggered  down 
the  shoulder  of  Bartlett,  and  stood  upon  the  shore 
of  the  lake.  If  she  could  put  that  piece  of  water 
between  her  and  her  pursuers,  she  would  be  safe. 
Had  she  strength  to  swim  it  ? 

At  her  first  step  into  the  water  she  saw  a  sight 


A-IIUNTING  OF  THE  LEER.  70 

that  sent  her  back  with  a  bound.  There  was  a 
boat  mid-lake :  two  men  were  in  it.  One  was 
rowing  :  the  other  had  a  gun  in  his  hand.  They 
were  looking  towards  her :  they  had  seen  her. 
(She  did  not  know  that  they  had  heard  the  bay 
ing  of  hounds  on  the  mountains,  and  had  been 
lying  in  wait  for  her  an  hour.)  What  should  she 
do?  The  hounds  were  drawing  near.  No  escape 
that  way,  even  if  she  could  still  run.  With  only 
a  moment's  hesitation  she  plunged  into  the  lake, 
and  struck  obliquely  across.  Her  tired  legs  could 
not  propel  the  tired  body  rapidly.  She  saw  the 
boat  headed  for  her.  She  turned  toward  the  cen 
tre  of  the  lake.  The  boat  turned.  She  could 
hear  the  rattle  of  the  oar-locks.  It  was  gaining 
on  her.  Then  there  was  a  silence!  Then  there 
was  a  splash  of  the  water  just  ahead  of  her,  fol 
lowed  b}r  a  roar  round  the  lake,  the  words  "  Con 
found  it  all!"  and  a  rattle  of  the  oars  again. 
The  doe  saw  the  boat  nearing  her.  She  turned 
irresolutety  to  the  shore  whence  she  came :  the 
dogs  were  lapping  the  water,  and  howling  there 
She  turned  again  to  the  centre  of  the 


80  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

The  brave,  pretty  creature  was  quite  exhausted 
now.  In  a  moment  more,  with  a  rush  of  water, 
the  boat  was  on  her,  and  the  man  at  the  oars  had 
leaned  over  and  caught  her  by  the  tail. 

' '  Knock  her  on  the  head  with  that  paddle  ! ' ' 
he  shouted  to  the  gentleman  in  the  stern. 

The  gentleman  was  a  gentleman,  with  a  kind, 
smooth- shaven  face,  and  might  have  been  a  min 
ister  of  some  sort  of  everlasting  gospel.  lie 
took  the  paddle  in  his  hand.  Just  then  the  doe 
turned  her  head,  and  looked  at  him  with  her 
great,  appealing  eyes. 

"  I  can't  do  it !  my  soul,  I  can't  do  it !  "  and 
he  dropped  the  paddle.  "  Oh,  let  her  go  !  " 

"Let  II.  go !  "  was  the  only  response  of  the 
guide  as  he  slung  the  deer  round,  whipped  out 
his  hunting-knife,  and  made  a  pass  that  severed 
her  jugular. 

And  the  gentleman  ate  that  night  of  the  veni 
son. 

The  buck  returned  about  the  middle  of  the 
afternoon.  The  fawn  was  bleating  piteously, 


j-//r.v7'/.y;  OF  THE  /);•:/•:/,'.  81 


hungry  and  lonesome.  The  buck  was  surprised. 
lie  looked  about  in  the  forest,  lie  took  a  circuit, 
and  came  back.  His  doe  was  nowhere  to  be 
seen.  He  looked  down  at  the  fawn  in  a  helpless 
sort  of  wa}'.  The  fawn  appealed  for  his  supper. 
The  buck  had  nothing  whatever  to  give  his  child, 
—  nothing  but  his  s}'mpath3\  If  he  said  any 
thing,  this  is  what  he  said  :  "  I'm  the  head  of  this 
family  ;  but,  really,  this  is  a  novel  case.  I've  noth 
ing  whatever  for  you.  '  I  don't  know  what  to  do. 
I've  the  feelings  of  a  father ;  but  you  can't  live 
on  them.  Let  us  travel." 

The  buck  walked  away :  the  little  one  toddled 
after  him.     They  disappeared  in  the  forest. 


V. 


A    CHARACTER    STUDY. 

IHERE  has  been  a  lively  inquiry  after 
the  primeval  man.  Wanted,  a  man 
who  would  satisfy  the  conditions  of  the 
miocene  environment,  and  3~et  would  be  good 
enough  for  an  ancestor.  We  are  not  particular 
about  our  ancestors,  if  they  are  sufficiently  re 
mote  ;  but  we  must  have  something.  Failing  to 
apprehend  the  primeval  man,  science  has  sought 
the  primitive  man  where  he  exists  as  a  survival 
in  present  savage  races.  He  is,  at  best,  only  a 
mushroom  growth  of  the  recent  period  (came  in, 
probably,  with  the  general  raft  of  mammalian 
fauna)  ;  but  he  possesses  yet  some  rudimentary 
traits  that  may  be  studied. 

It  is  a  good  mental  exercise  to  try  to  fix  the 


A   CHARACTER  STUDY.  83 

mind  on  the  primitive  man  divested  of  all  the 
attributes  he  has  acquired  in  his  struggles  with 
the  other  mammalian  fauna.  Fix  the  mind  on 
an  orange,  the  ordinarj'  occupation  of  the  meta- 
ph}'sician :  take  from  it  (without  eating  it)  odor, 
color,  weight,  form,  substance,  and  peel ;  then 
let  the  mind  still  dwell  on  it  as  an  orange.  The 
experiment  is  perfectly  successful ;  only,  at  the 
end  of  it,  you  haven't  any  mind.  Better  still, 
consider  the  telephone :  take  away  from  it  the 
metallic  disk,  and  the  magnetized  iron,  and  the 
connecting  wire,  and  then  let  the  mind  run 
abroad  on  the  telephone.  The  mind  won't  come 
back.  I  have  tried  by  this  sort  of  process  to  get 
a  conception  of  the  primitive  man.  I  let  the 
mind  roam  away  back  over  the  vast  geologic 
spaces,  and  sometimes  fancy  I  sec  a  dim  image 
of  him  stalking  across  the  terrace  epoch  of  the 
quaternary  period. 

But  this  is  an  unsatisfying  pleasure.  The  best 
results  are  obtained  by  studying  the  primitive 
man  as  he  is  left  here  and  there  in  our  era,  a 
witness  of  what  has  been ;  and  I  find  him  most 


84  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

to  my  mind  in  the  Adirondack  system,  of  what 
geologists  call  the  Champlain  epoch.  I  suppose 
the  primitive  man  is  one  who  owes  more  to 
nature  than  to  the  forces  of  civilization.  What 
we  seek  in  him  are  the  primal  and  original  traits, 
unmixed  with  the  sophistications  of  society,  and 
unimpaired  by  the  refinements  of  an  artificial 
culture.  He  would  retain  the  primitive  instincts, 
which  are  cultivated  out  of  the  ordinary,  com 
monplace  man.  I  should  expect  to  find  him,  by 
reason  of  an  unrelinquished  kinship,  enjoying  a 
special  communion  with  nature,  —  admitted  to 
its  mysteries,  understanding  its  moods,  and  able 
to  predict  its  vagaries.  He  would  be  a  kind  of 
test  to  us  of  what  we  have  lost  by  our  gregarious 
acquisitions.  On  the  one  hand,  there  would  be 
the  sharpness  of  the  senses,  the  keen  instincts 
(which  the  fox  and  the  beaver  still  possess) ,  the 
ability  to  find  one's  way  in  the  pathless  forest,  to 
follow  a  trail,  to  circumvent  the  wild  denizens  of 
the  woods  ;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  there  would 
be  the  philosophy  of  life  which  the  primitive 
man,  with  little  external  aid,  would  evolve  from 


A  CHARACTER  STUDY.  85 

original  observation  and  cogitation.  It  is  our 
good  fortune  to  know  such  a  man  ;  but  it  is  diffi 
cult  to  present  him  to  a  scientific  and  cavilling 
generation.  He  emigrated  from  somewhat  limited 
conditions  in  Vermont,  at  an  early  age,  nearly 
half  a  century  ago,  and  sought  freedom  for  his 
natural  development  backward  in  the  wilds  of  the 
Adirondacks.  Sometimes  it  is  a  love  of  adven 
ture  and  freedom  that  sends  men  out  of  the  more 
civilized  conditions  into  the  less  ;  sometimes  it  is 
a  constitutional  physical  lassitude  which  leads 
them  to  prefer  the  rod  to  the  hoe,  the  trap  to  the 
sickle,  and  the  society  of  bears  to  town-meetings 
and  taxes.  I  think  that  Old  Mountain  Phelps 
had  merely  the  instincts  of  the  primitive  man, 
and  never  any  hostile  civilizing  intent  as  to  the 
wilderness  into  which  he  plunged.  Why  should 
he  want  to  slash  away  the  forest,  and  plough  up 
the  ancient  mould,  when  it  is  infinitely  pleasanter 
to  roam  about  in  the  leafy  solitudes,  or  sit  upon  a 
mossy  log  and  listen  to  the  chatter  of  birds  and 
the  stir  of  beasts?  Are  there  not  trout  in  the 
streams,  gum  exuding  from  the  spruce,  sugar  in 


86  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

the  maples,  honey  in  the  hollow  trees,  fur  on  the 
sables,  warmth  in  hickory-logs?  Will  not  a  few 
days'  planting  and  scratching  in  the  "open" 
yield  potatoes  and  rye?  And,  if  there  is  steadier 
diet  needed  than  venison  and  bear,  is  the  pig  an 
expensive  animal  ?  If  Old  Phelps  bowed  to  the 
prejudice  or  fashion  of  his  age  (since  we  have 
come  out  of  the  tertiary  state  of  things),  and 
reared  a  family,  built  a  frame-house  in  a  secluded 
nook  by  a  cold  spring,  planted  about  it  some 
apple-trees  and  a  rudimentary  garden,  and  in 
stalled  a  group  of  flaming  sunflowers  by  the  door, 
I  am  convinced  that  it  was  a  concession  that  did 
not  touch  his  radical  character  ;  that  is  to  say,  it 
did  not  impair  his  reluctance  to  split  oven-wood. 
He  was  a  true  citizen  of  the  wilderness. 
Thoreau  would  have  liked  him,  as  he  liked  In 
dians  and  woodchucks,  and  the  smell  of  pine- 
forests  ;  and,  if  Old  Phelps  had  seen  Thoreau, 
he  would  probably  have  said  to  him,  "Why  c  i 
airth,  Mr.  Thoreau,  don't  you  live  accordin'  to 
your  preachin' ?  "  You  might  be  misled  by  the 
shaggy  suggestion  of  Old  Phelps 's  given  name  — 


A   CHARACTER  STUDY.  87 

Orson  —  into  the  notion  that  he  was  a  mighty 
hunter,  with  the  fierce  spirit  of  the  Berserkers  in 
his  veins.  Nothing  could  be  farther  from  the 
truth.  The  hirsute  and  grisly  sound  of  Orson 
expresses  only  his  entire  affinity  with  the  untamed 
and  the  natural,  an  uncouth  but  gentle  passion 
for  the  freedom  and  wildness  of  the  forest.  Or 
son  Fliclps  has  only  those  unconventional  and 
humorous  qualities  of  the  bear  which  make  the 
animal  so  beloved  in  literature  ;  and  one  does  not 
think  of  Old  Phelps  so  much  as  a  lover  of  nature, 
—  to  use  the  sentimental  slang  of  the  period,  — 
as  a  part  of  nature  itself. 

KHis  appearance  at  the  time  when  as  a  "guide " 
he  began  to  come  into  public  notice  fostered 
this  impression,  —  a  sturdy  figure,  with  long 
bod}'  and  short  legs,  clad  in  a  woollen  shirt  and 
butternut-colored  trousers  repaired  to  the  point 
of  picturesquencss,  his  head  surmounted  by  a 
limp,  light-brown  felt  hat,  frayed  away  at  the 
top,  so  that  his  yellowish  hair  grew  out  of  it  like 
some  nameless  fern  out  of  a  pot.  His  tawny 
hair  was  long  and  tangled,  matted  now  mnny 


88  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

years  past  the  possibility  of  being  entered  b}^  a 
comb.  His  features  were  small  and  delicate,  and 
set  in  the  frame  of  a  reddish  beard,  the  razor 
having  mowed  away  a  clearing  about  the  sensi 
tive  mouth,  which  was  not  seldom  wreathed  with 
a  child-like  and  charming  smile.  Out  of  this 
hirsute  environment  looked  the  small  gray  eyes, 
set  near  together;  eyes  keen  to  observe,  and 
quick  to  express  change  of  thought ;  eyes  that 
made  you  believe  instinct  can  grow  into  philo 
sophic  judgment.  His  feet  and  hands  were  of 
aristocratic  smallness,  although  the  latter  were 
not  worn  away  by  ablutions  ;  in  fact,  they  assisted 
his  toilet  to  give  you  the  impression  that  here 
was  a  man  who  had  juct  come  out  of  the  ground, 
—  a  real  son  of  the  soil,  whose  appearance  was 
partially  explained  by  his  humorous  relation  to 
soap.  "Soap  is  a  thing,"  he  said,  "that  I 
hain't  no  kinder  use  for."  His  clothes  seemed 
to  have  been  put  on  him  once  for  all,  like  the 
Dark  of  a  tree,  a  long  time  ago.  The  observant 
stranger  was  sure  to  be  puzzled  l)y  the  contrast 
of  this  realistic  and  uncouth  exterior  with  the 


A   CHARACTER  STUDY.  89 

internal  fineness,  amounting  to  refinement  and 
culture,  that  shone  through  it  all.  What  com 
munion  had  supplied  the  place  of  our  artificia 
breeding  to  this  man  ? 

Perhaps  his  most  characteristic  attitude  was 
sitting  on  a  log,  with  a  short  pipe  in  his  mouth. 
If  ever  man  was  formed  to  sit  on  a  log,  it  was 
Old  Phelps.  He  was  essentially  a  contemplative 
person.  Walking  on  a  countiy  road,  or  an}'- 
where  in  the  "  open,"  was  irksome  to  him.  He 
had  a  shambling,  loose-jointed  gait,  not  unlike 
that  of  the  bear :  his  short  legs  bowed  out,  as  if 
the}'  had  been  more  in  the  habit  of  climbing  trees 
than  of  walking.  On  land,  if  we  may  use  that 
expression,  he  was  something  like  a  sailor ;  but, 
once  in  the  rugged  trail  or  the  unmarked  route 
of  his  native  forest,  he  was  a  different  person, 
and  few  pedestrians  could  compete  with  him. 
The  vulgar  estimate  of  his  contemporaries,  that 
reckoned  Old  Phelps  "lazy,"  was  simply  a  fail 
ure  to  comprehend  the  conditions  of  his  being. 
It  is  the  unjustncss  of  civilization  that  it  sets  up 
uniform  and  artificial  standards  for  all  persons 


90  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

The  primitive  man  suffers  by  them  much  as  the 
contemplative  philosopher  does,  when  one  hap 
pens  to  arrive  in  this  busy,  fussy  world. 

If  the  appearance  of  Old  Phelps  attracts  at 
tention,  his  voice,  when  first  heard,  invariably 
startles  the  listener.  A  small,  high-pitched,  half- 
querulous  voice,  it  easily  rises  into  the  shrillest 
falsetto  ;  and  it  has  a  quality  in  it  that  makes  it 
audible  in  all  the  tempests  of  the  forest,  or  the 
roar  of  rapids,  like  the  piping  of  a  boatswain's 
whistle  at  sea  in  a  gale.  He  has  a  way  of  letting 
it  rise  as  his  sentence  goes  on,  or  when  he  is 
opposed  in  argument,  or  wishes  to  mount  above 
other  voices  in  the  conversation,  until  it  dominates 
everything.  Heard  in  the  depths  of  the  woods, 
quavering  aloft,  it  is  felt  to  be  as  much  a  part  of 
nature,  an  original  force,  as  the  north-west  wind 
or  the  scream  of  the  hen-hawk.  When  he  is  pot 
tering  about  the  camp-fire,  trying  to  light  his  pipe 
with  a  twig  held  in  the  flame,  he  is  apt  to  begin 
some  philosophical  observation  in  a  small,  slow, 
stumbling  voice,  which  seems  about  to  end  in 
defeat ;  when  he  puts  on  some  unsuspected  force. 


A   CHARACTER  STUDY.  91 

and  the  sentence  ends  in  an  insistent  shriek. 
Horace  Grecle}'  had  such  a  voice,  and  could  regu- 
l?le  it  in  the  same  manner.  But  Phelps's  voice  is 
not  seldom  plaintive,  as  if  touched  by  the  dreamy 
sadness  of  the  woods  themselves. 

When  Old  Mountain  Phelps  was  discovered,  he 
was,  as  the  reader  has  alreacty  guessed,  not  un 
derstood  by  his  contemporaries.  His  neighbors, 
farmers  in  the  secluded  valley,  had  man}"  of  them 
grown  thrifty  and  prosperous,  cultivating  the  fer 
tile  meadows,  and  vigorously  attacking  the  tim 
bered  mountains  ;  while  Phelps,  with  not  much 
more  faculty  of  acquiring  property  than  the  roam 
ing  deer,  had  pursued  the  even  tenor  of  the  life 
in  the  forest  on  which  he  set  out.  The}'  would 
have  been  surprised  to  be  told  that  Old  Phelps 
owned  more  of  what  makes  the  value  of  the 
Adirondacks  than  all  of  them  put  together; 
but  it  was  true.  This  woodsman,  this  trapper, 
this  hunter,  this  fisherman,  this  sitter  on  a  log, 
and  philosopher,  was  the  real  proprietor  of  the 
region  over  which  he  was  ready  to  guide  the 
stranger.  It  is  true  that  he  had  not  a  monopoh 


92  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

of  its  geography  or  its  topography  (though  his 
knowledge  was  superior  in  these  respects)  ;  there 
were  other  trappers,  and  more  deadly  hunters, 
and  as  intrepid  guides :  but  Old  Phelps  was  the 
discoverer  of  the  beauties  and  sublimities  of  the 
mountains ;  and,  when  city  strangers  broke  into 
the  region,  he  monopolized  the  appreciation  of 
these  delights  and  wonders  of  nature.  I  suppose, 
that,  in  all  that  country,  he  alone  had  noticed  the 
sunsets,  and  observed  the  delightful  processes  of 
the  seasons,  taken  pleasure  in  the  woods  for 
themselves,  and  climbed  mountains  solely  for  the 
sake  of  the  prospect.  He  alone  understood  what 
was  meant  by  "scenery."  In  the  eyes  of  his 
neighbors,  who  did  not  know  that  he  was  a  poet 
and  a  philosopher,  I  dare  say  he  appeared  to  be 
a  slack  provider,  a  rather  shiftless  trapper  and 
fisherman ;  and  his  passionate  love  of  the  forest 
and  the  mountains,  if  it  was  noticed,  was  ac 
counted  to  him  for  idleness.  When  the  appreci 
ative  tourist  arrived,  Phelps  was  ready,  as  guide, 
to  open  to  him  all  the  wonders  of  his  possessions  : 
he,  for  the  first  time,  found  an  outlet  for  his  CD- 


A   CHARACTER  STUDY.  93 

thusiasm,  and  a  response  .to  his  own  passion. 
It  then  became  known  what  manner  of  man  this 
was  who  had  grown  up  here  in  the  companionship 
of  forests,  mountains,  and  wild  animals ;  that 
these  scenes  had  highly  developed  in  him  the  love 
of  beauty,  the  aesthetic  sense,  delicacy  of  appre 
ciation,  refinement  of  feeling ;  and  that,  in  his 
solitary  wanderings  and  musings,  the  primitive 
man,  self-taught,  had  evolved  for  himself  a  phi 
losophy  and  a  sj'stem  of  things.  And  it  was  a 
sufficient  sj-stem,  so  long  as  it  was  not  disturbed 
by  external  scepticism.  When  the  outer  world 
came  to  him,  perhaps  he  had  about  as  much  to 
give  to  it  as  to  receive  from  it ;  probably  more,  in 
his  own  estimation ;  for  there  is  no  conceit  like 
that  of  isolation. 

Phelps  loved  his  mountains.  He  was  the  dis 
coverer  of  Marcy,  and  caused  the  first  trail  to  be 
cut  to  its  summit,  so  that  others  could  enjoy  the 
noble  views  from  its  round  and  rocky  top.  To 
him  it  was,  in  noble  S3Tnmetry  and  beauty,  the 
chief  mountain  of  the  globe.  To  stand  on  it 
gave  him,  as  he  said,  "  a  feeling  of  heaven  up- 


94  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

h'isted-ness."  He  heard  with  impatience  that 
Mount  Washington  was  a  thousand  feet  higher, 
and  he  had  a  child-like  incredulity  about  the  sur 
passing  sublimity  of  the  Alps.  Praise  of  any 
other  elevation  he  seemed  to  consider  a  slight  to 
Mount  Marcy,  and  did  not  willingly  hear  it,  any 
more  than  a  lover  hears  the  laudation  of  the 
beauty  of  another  woman  than  the  one  he  loves. 
When  he  showed  us  scenery  he  loved,  it  made 
him  melancholy  to  have  us  speak  of  scenery  else 
where  that  was  finer.  And  yet  there  was  this 
delicacy  about  him,  that  he  never  over-praised 
what  he  brought  us  to  see,  any  more  than  one 
would  over-praise  a  friend  of  whom  he  was  fond. 
I  remember,  that  when  for  the  first  time,  after  a 
toilsome  journe}7"  through  the  forest,  the  splendors 
of  the  Lower  Ausable  Pond  broke  upon  our 
vision,  —  that  low-lying  silver  lake,  imprisoned 
by  the  precipices  which  it  reflected  in  its 'bosom, 
—  he  made  no  outward  response  to  our  burst  of 
admiration :  only  a  quiet  gleam  of  the  eye  showed 
the  pleasure  our  appreciation  gave  him.  As  some 
one  said,  it  was  as  if  his  friend  had  been  admired, 


A   CHARACTER  STUDY. 


UNI  VI 

tt 


—  a  friend  about  whom  he  was  unwilling  to  say 
much  himself,  but  well  pleased  to  have,  others 
praise. 

Thus  far,  we  have  considered  Old  Phelps  as 
simply  the  product  of  the  Adirondacks ;  not  so 
much  a  self-made  man  (as  the  doubtful  phrase 
has  it)  as  a  natural  growth  amid  primal  forces. 
But  our  study  is  interrupted  by  another  influence, 
which  complicates  the  problem,  but  increases  its 
interest.  No  scientific  observer,  so  far  as  we 
know,  has  ever  been  able  to  watch  the  develop 
ment  of  the  primitive  man,  pla}'ed  upon  and 
fashioned  by  the  hebdomadal  iteration  of  i  i  Gree- 
ley's  Weekly  Tri-bune."  Old  Phelps  educated 
by  the  woods  is  a  fascinating  study;  educated 
by  the  woods  and  the  Tri-bune,  he  is  a  phenome 
non.  No  one  at  this  day  can  reasonably  con 
ceive  exactly  what  this  newspaper  was  to  such 
a  mountain  valle}'  as  Keene.  If  it  was  not  a 
Providence,  it  was  a  Bible.  It  was  no  doubt 
owing  to  it  that  Democrats  became  as  scarce  as 
moose  in  the  Adirondacks.  But  it  is  not  of  its 
political  aspect  that  I  speak.  I  suppose  that  the 


96  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

most  cultivated  and  best  informed  portion  of  the 
earth's,  surface — the  Western  Reserve  of  Ohio, 
as  free  from  conceit  as  it  is  from  a  suspicion 
that  it  lacks  any  thing — owes  its  pre-eminence 
solely  to  this  comprehensive  journal.  It  received 
from  it  every  thing  except  a  collegiate  and  a  classi 
cal  education, — things  not  to  be  desired,  since 
they  interfere  with  the  self-manufacture  of  man. 
If  Greek  had  been  in  this  curriculum,  its  best 
known  dictum  would  have  been  translated, 
"Make  thyself."  This  journal  carried  to  the 
community  that  fed  on  it  not  only  a  complete 
education  in  all  departments  of  human  practice 
and  theorizing,  but  the  more  valuable  and  satis 
fying  assurance  that  there  was  nothing  more  tc 
be  gleaned  in  the  universe  worth  the  attention  of 
man.  This  panoplied  its  readers  in  completeness. 
Politics,  literature,  arts,  sciences,  universal  broth 
erhood  and  sisterhood, — nothing  was  omitted; 
neither  the  poetry  of  Tennyson,  nor  the  philos 
ophy  of  Margaret  Fuller  ;  neither  the  virtues  of 
association,  nor  of  unbolted  wheat.  The  laws 
of  political  economy  and  trade  were  laid  down  as 


A  CHARACTER  STUDY.  97 

positively  and  clearly  as  the  best  wa}T  to  bake 
beans,  and  the  saving  truth  that  the  millennium 
would  cornc,  and  come  onl}'  when  every  foot  of 
Hie  earth  was  subsoiled. 

I  do  not  say  that  Orson  Phelps  was  the  product 
of  nature  and  the  Tri-buue ;  but  he  cannot  l>c 
explained  without  considering  these  two  factors. 
To  him  Greele}*  was  the  Tri-bune,  and  the  Tri 
bune  was  Greeley  ;  and  }-et  I  think  he  conceived 
of  Horace  Greeley  as  something  greater  than  his 
newspaper,  and  perhaps  capable  of  producing 
another  journal  equal  to  it  in  another  part  of  the 
universe.  At  any  rate,  so  completely  did  Phelps 
absorb  this  paper  and  this  personality,  that  he 
was  popularly  known  as  "  Greeley  "  in  the  region 
where  he  lived.  Perhaps  a  fancied  resemblance 
of  the  two  men  in  the  popular  mind  had  some 
thing  to  do  with  this  transfer  of  name.  There  is 
no  doubt  that  Horace  G  reeky  owed  his  vast  in 
fluence  in  the  countiy  to  his  genius,  nor  much 
doubt  that  he  owed  his  popularity  in  the  rural 
districts  to  James  Gordon  Bennett ;  that  is,  to 
the  personality  of  the  man  which  the  ingenious 


98  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 


Bennett  impressed  upon  the  country.  That  he 
despised  the  conventionalities  of  society,  and  was 
a  sloven  in  his  toilet,  was  firmly  believed  ;  and 
the  belief  endeared  him  to  the  hearts  of  the 
people.  To  them  "the  old  white  coat"  —an 
antique  garment  of  unrcnewed  immortality — was 
as  much  a  subject  of  idolatry  as  the  redingote 
grise  to  the  soldiers  of  the  first  Napoleon,  who 
had  seen  it  by  the  camp-fires  on  the  Po  and  on 
the  Boiysthenes,  and  believed  that  he  would  come 
again  in  it  to  lead  them  against  the  enemies  of 
France.  The  Greelcy  of  the  popular  heart  was 
clad  as  Bennett  said  he  was  clad.  It  was  in  vain, 
even  pathetically  in  vain,  that  he  published  in  his 
newspaper  the  full  bill  of  his  fashionable  tailor 
(the  fact  that  it  was  receipted  may  have  excited 
the  animosity  of  some  of  his  contemporaries)  to 
show  that  he  wore  the  best  broadcloth,  and  that 
the  folds  of  his  trousers  followed  the  city  fashion 
of  falling  outside  his  boots.  If  this  revelation 
was  believed,  it  made  no  sort  of  impression  in 
the  countr}'.  The  rural  readers  were  not  to  be 
wheedled  out  of  their  cherished  conception  of 


A   CHARACTER  STUDY.  90 


the  personal  appearance  of  the  philosophci  of 
the  Tri-bune. 

That  the  Tri-bune  taught  Old  Fhclps  to  be 
more  Phelps  than  he  would  have  been  without  it 
was  part  of  the  independence-teaching  mission 
of  Greeley's  paper.  The  subscribers  were  an 
arm}',  in  which  ever}"  man  was  a  general.  And 
I  am  not  surprised  to  find  Old  Phelps  lately  rising 
to  the  audacity  of  criticising  his  exemplar.  In 
some  recently-published  observations  by  Phelps 
upon  the  philosophy  of  reading  is  laid  down  this 
definition :  ' i  If  I  understand  the  necessity  or 
use  of  reading,  it  is  to  reproduce  again  what  has 
been  said  or  proclaimed  before.  Hence  letters, 
characters,  &c.,  are  arranged  in  all  the  perfection 
they  possibly  can  be,  to  show  how  certain  lan 
guage  has  been  spoken  by  the  original  author. 
Xow,  to  reproduce  by  reading,  the  reading  should 
be  so  perfectly  like  the  original,  that  no  one 
standing  out  of  sight  could  tell  the  reading  from 
the  first  time  the  language  was  spoken." 

This  is  illustrated  by  the  highest  authority  at 
hand  :  "  I  have  heard  as  good  readers  read,  and 


100  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

as  poor  readers,  as  almost  any  one  in  this  region. 
If  I  have  not  heard  as  man}',  I  have  had  a 
chance  to  hear  nearly  the  extreme  in  variety. 
Horace  Greclcy  ought  to  have  been  a  good  read 
er.  Certainly  but  few,  if  an}',  ever  knew  ever}' 
word  of  the  English  language  at  a  glance  more 
readily  than  he  did,  or  knew  the  meaning  of 
every  mark  of  punctuation  more  clearly  ;  but  he 
could  not  read  proper.  '  But  how  do  you  know  ? ' 
says  one.  From  the  fact,  I  heard  him  in  the 
same  lecture  deliver  or  produce  remarks  in  his 
own  particular  way,  that,  if  the}'  had  been  pub 
lished  properly  in  print,  a  proper  reader  would 
have  reproduced  them  again  the  same  way.  In 
the  midst  of  those  remarks  Mr.  Greeley  took  up 
a  paper,  to  reproduce  by  reading  part  of  a  speech 
that  some  one  else  had  made ;  and  his  reading 
did  not  sound  much  more  like  the  man  that  first 
lead  or  made  the  speech  than  the  clatter  of  a 
nail-factory  sounds  like  a  well-delivered  speech. 
Now,  the  fault  was  not  because  Mr.  Greeley  did 
not  know  how  to  read  as  well  as  almost  any  man 
*hat  ever  lived,  if  not  quite  :  but  in  his  youth  he 


A   CHARACTER  STUDY.  1  )1 

learned  to  read  wrong ;  and,  as  it  is  ten  times 
harder  to  unlearn  any  thing  than  it  is  to  learn  it, 
he,  like  thousands  of  others,  could  never  stop  to 
unlearn  it,  but  carried  it  on  through  his  whole 
life." 

Whether  a  reader  would  be  thanked  for  repro 
ducing  one  of  Horace  Greek's  lectures  as  he 
delivered  it  is  a  question  that  cannot  detain  us 
here  ;  but  the  teaching  that  he  ought  to  do  so,  I 
think,  would  please  Mr.  Greeley. 

The  first  driblets  of  professional  tourists  and 
summer  boarders  who  arrived  among  the  Adiron 
dack  Mountains  a  few  years  ago  found  Old 
Fhclps  the  chief  and  best  guide  of  the  region. 
Those  who  were  eager  to  throw  off  the  usages  of 
civilization,  and  tramp  and  camp  in  the  wilder 
ness,  could  not  but  be  well  satisfied  with  the 
aboriginal  appearance  of  this  guide ;  and  when 
he  led  off  into  the  woods,  axe  in  hand,  and  a 
huge  canvas  sack  upon  his  shoulders,  they  seemed 
to  be  following  the  Wandering  Jew.  The  con 
tents  of  this  sack  would  have  furnished  a  modern 
industrial  exhibition, — provisions  cooked  and 


102  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

raw,  blankets,  maple- sugar,  tin-ware,  clothing, 
pork,  Indian-meal,  flour,  coffee,  tea,  &c.  Phelps 
was  the  ideal  guide  :  he  knew  ever}T  foot  of  the 
pathless  forest ;  he  knew  all  wood-craft,  all  the 
signs  of  the  weather,  or,  what  is  the  same  thing, 
how  to  make  a  Delphic  prediction  about  it. 
He  was  fisherman  and  hunter,  and  had  been  the 
comrade  of  sportsmen  and  explorers ;  and  his 
enthusiasm  for  the  beaut}'  and  sublimity  of  the 
region,  and  for  its  untamable  wildness,  amounted 
to  a  passion.  He  loved  his  profession  ;  and  }'et 
it  very  soon  appeared  that  he  exercised  it  with 
reluctance  for  those  who  had  neither  ideality,  nor 
love  for  the  woods.  Their  presence  was  a  profa 
nation  amid  the  scenery  he  loved.  To  guide 
into  his  private  and  secret  haunts  a  party  that 
had  no  appreciation  of  their  loveliness  disgusted 
him.  It  was  a  waste  of  his  time  to  conduct  flip 
pant  young  men  and  giddy  girls  who  made  a 
nois}T  and  irreverent  lark  of  the  expedition.  And. 
for  their  part,  ihey  did  not  appreciate  the  benefit 
of  being  accompanied  by  a  poet  and  a  philoso 
pher.  They  neither  understood  nor  valued  his 


A   CHARACTER  STUDY.  103 

special  knowledge  and  his  shrewd  observations : 
the}-  didn't  even  like  his  shrill  voice  ;  his  quaint 
talk  bored  them.  It  was  true,  that,  at  this 
period,  Phelps  had  lost  something  of  the  activit}* 
of  his  3'outh  ;  and  the  habit  of  contemplative  sit 
ting  on  a  log  and  talking  increased  with  the 
infirmities  induced  by  the  hard  life  of  the  woods 
man.  Perhaps  he  would  rather  talk,  either  about 
the  woods-life  or  the  various  problems  of  exist 
ence,  than  cut  wood,  or  bus}'  himself  in  the 
drudgery  of  the  camp.  His  critics  went  so  far 
as  to  say,  "  Old  Phelps  is  a  fraud."  They  would 
have  said  the  same  of  Socrates.  Xantippe,  who 
never  appreciated  the  world  in  which  Socrates 
lived,  thought  he  was  lazy.  Probably  Socrates 
could  cook  no  better  than  Old  Phelps,  and  no 
doubt  went  "  gumming  "  about  Athens  with  very 
little  care  of  what  was  in  the  pot  for  dinner. 

If  the  summer  visitors  measured  Old  Phelps, 
he  also  measured  them  by  his  own  standards, 
lie  used  to  write  out  what  he  called  "  short-faced 
descriptions"  of  his  comrades  in  the  woods, 
which  were  never  so  flattering  as  true.  It 


104  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

curious  to  see  how  the  various  qualities  which  are 
esteemed  in  societ}*  appeared  in  his  e}'es,  looked 
at  merery  in  their  relation  to  the  limited  world  he 
knew,  and  judged  by  their  adaptation  to  the 
primitive  life.  It  was  a  much  subtler  comparison 
than  that  of  the  ordinary  guide,  who  rates  his 
traveller  by  his  ability  to  endure  on  a  march,  to 
carry  a  pack,  use  an  oar,  hit  a  mark,  or  sing  a 
song.  Phelps  brought  his  people  to  a  test  of 
their  naturalness  and  sincerit}',  tried  by  contact 
with  the  verities  of  the  woods.  If  a  person 
failed  to  appreciate  the  woods,  Phelps  had  no 
opinion  of  him  or  his  culture  ;  and  3^et,  although 
he  was  perfectly  satisfied  with  his  own  philosophy 
of  life,  worked  out  by  close  observation  of  nature 
and  study  of  the  Tri-bune,  he  was  always  eager 
for  converse  with  superior  minds, — with  those 
who  had  the  advantage  of  travel  and  much  read 
ing,  and,  above  all,  with  those  who  had  any  origi 
nal  "  speckerlation."  Of  ah1  the  society  he  was 
ever  permitted  to  enjo3T,  I  think  he  prized  most 
that  of  Dr.  Bushnell.  The  doctor  enjoyed  the 
quaint  and  first-hand  observations  of  the  old 


A   CHARACTER  STUDY.  105 

woodsman,  and  Phelps  found  new  worlds  open 
to  him  in  the  wide  ranges  of  the  doctor's  mind. 
The}'  talked  by  the  hour  upon  all  sorts  of  themes, 
—  the  growth  of  the  tree,  the  habits  of  wild 
animals,  the  migration  of  seeds,  the  succession 
of  oak  and  pine,  not  to  mention  theology,  and 
the  Hysterics  of  the  supernatural. 

I  recall  the  bearing  of  Old  Phelps,  when,  several 
years  ago,  he  conducted  a  party  to  the  summit  of 
Mount  Marcy  by  the  way  he  had  "  bushed  out." 
This  was  his  mountain,  and  he  had  a  peculiar 
sense  of  ownership  in  it.  In  a  way,  it  was  holy 
ground  ;  and  he  would  rather  no  one  should  go  on 
it  who  did  not  feel  its  sanctity.  Perhaps  it  was  a 
sense  of  some  divine  relation  in  it  that  made  him 
alwa}'s  speak  of  it  as  "  Merc}7."  To  him  this 
ridiculoushr  dubbed  Mount  Marcy  was  alwa}'s 
"  Mount  Mercy."  By  a  like  effort  to  soften  the 
personal  offensivcness  of  the  nomenclature  of 
this  region,  he  invariably  spoke  of  Dix's  Peak, 
one  of  the  southern  peaks  of  the  range,  as 
"Dixie."  It  was  some  time  since  Phelps  him 
self  had  visited  his  mountain  ;  and,  as  he  pushed 


106  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

on  through  the  miles  of  forest,  we  noticed  a  kind 
of  eagerness  in  the  old  man,  as  of  a  lover  going 
to  a  rendezvous.  Along  the  foot  of  the  moun 
tain  flows  a  clear  trout-stream,  secluded  and  un 
disturbed  in  those  awful  solitudes,  wThich  is  the 
"Merc3T  Brook"  of  the  old  woodsman.  That 
day  when  he  crossed  it,  in  advance  of  his  corn- 
pan}',  he  was  heard  to  say  in  a  low  voice,  as  if 
greeting  some  object  of  which  he  was  slryry  fond. 
"So,  little  brook,  do  I  meet  you  once  more?" 
and  when  we  were  well  up  the  mountain,  and 
emerged  from  the  last  stunted  fringe  of  vegeta 
tion  upon  the  rock-bound  slope,  I  saw  Old  Phelps, 
who  was  still  foremost,  cast  himself  upon  the 
ground,  and  heard  him  cry,  with  an  enthusiasm 
that  was  intended  for  no  mortal  ear,  "I'm  with 
you  once  again  ! ' '  His  great  passion  very  rarely 
found  expression  in  any  such  theatrical  burst. 
The  bare  summit  that  day  was  swept  by  a  fierce, 
cold  wind,  and  lost  in  an  occasional  chilling 
cloud.  Some  of  the  party,  exhausted  by  the 
climb,  and  shivering  in  the  rude  wind,  wanted  a 
fire  kindled  and  a  cup  of  tea  made,  and  thought 


A  CHARACTER  STUDY.  107 

this  ',hc  guide's  business.  Fire  and  tea  were  far 
enough  from  his  thought.  He  had  withdrawn 
himself  quite  apart,  and  wrapped  in  a  ragged 
blanket,  still  and  silent  as  the  rock  he  stood  on, 
was  gazing  out  upon  the  wilderness  of  peaks. 
The  view  from  Marcj'  is  peculiar.  It  is  without 
soi'tncss  or  relief.  The  narrow  valleys  are  onty 
dark  shadows  ;  the  lakes  are  bits  of  broken  mir 
ror.  From  horizon  to  horizon  there  is  a  tumultu 
ous  sea  of  billows  turned  to  stone.  You  stand 
upon  the  highest  billow  ;  you  command  the  situa 
tion  ;  you  have  surprised  Nature  in  a  high  creative 
act ;  the  mighty  primal  energy  has  only  just  be 
come  repose.  This  was  a  supreme  hour  to  Old 
Phclps.  Tea !  I  believe  the  boys  succeeded  in 
kindling  a  fire  ;  but  the  enthusiastic  stoic  had  no 
reason  to  complain  of  want  of  appreciation  in  the 
rest  of  the  party.  When  we  were  descending,  he 
told  us,  with  mingled  humor  and  scorn,  of  a  party 
of  ladies  he  once  led  to  the  top  of  the  mountain 
on  a  still  day,  who  began  immediate!}'  to  talk 
about  the  fashions  !  As  he  related  the  scene, 
stopping  and  facing  us  in  the  trail,  his  mild,  far- 


108  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

in  eyes  came  to  the  front,  and  his  voice  rose  with 
his  language  to  a  kind  of  scream. 

"  Why,  there  they  were,  right  be  Core  the  great 
est  view  they  ever  saw,  talkin'  about  the 
fashions  !  ' ' 

Impossible  to  convey  the  accent  of  contempt 
in  which  he  pronounced  the  word  "fashions," 
and  then  added,  with  a  sort  of  regretful  bitter 
ness,  — 

"  I  was  a  great  mind  to  come  down,  and  leave 
'em  there." 

In  common  with  the  Greeks,  Old  Phelps  per 
sonified  the  woods,  mountains,  and  streams. 
They  had  not  only  personality,  but  distinctions  of 
sex.  It  was  something  be}'ond  the  characteriza 
tion  of  the  hunter,  which  appeared,  for  instance, 
when  he  related  a  fight  with  a  panther,  in  such 
expressions  as,  "Then  Mr.  Panther  thought  he 
would  see  what  he  could  do,"  &c.  He  was  in 
"imaginative  sympatlry "  with  all  wild  things. 
The  afternoon  we  descended  Marcy,  we  went 
away  to  the  west,  through  the  primeval  forests, 
toward  Avalanche  and  Golden,  and  followed  the 


A   CHARACTER  STUDY.  109 

course  of  the  charming  Opalescent.  When  we 
reached  the  leaping  stream,  Phelps  exclaimed,  — 

"Here's  little  Miss -Opalescent !  " 

"Why  don't  you  say  Mr.  Opalescent?"  some 
one  asked. 

"Oh,  she's  too  pretty!"  And  too  pretty  she 
was,  with  her  foam- white  and  rainbow  dress,  and 
her  downfalls,  and  fountain-like  uprising.  A  be 
witching  young  person  we  found  her  all  that  sum 
mer  afternoon. 

This  sylph-like  person  had  little  in  common 
with  a  monstrous  lady  whose  adventures  in  the 
wilderness  Phelps  was  fond  of  relating.  She 
was  built  something  on  the  plan  of  the  mountains, 
and  her  ambition  to  explore  was  equal  to  her 
size.  Phelps  and  the  other  guides  once  suc 
ceeded  in  raising  her  to  the  top  of  Marcy ;  but 
the  feat  of  getting  a  hogshead  of  molasses  up 
there  would  have  been  easier.  In  attempting  to 
give  us  an  idea  of  her  magnitude  that  night,  as 
we  sat  in  the  forest  camp,  Phelps  hesitated  a 
moment,  while  he  cast  his  eye  around  the  woods  : 
41  Waal,  there  ain't  no  tree  !  " 


110  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

It  is  only  by  recalling  fragmentary  remarks 
and  incidents  that  I  can  put  the  reader  in  pos 
session  of  the  peculiarities  of  my  subject ;  and 
this  involves  the  wrenching  of  things  out  of  their 
natural  order  and  continuity,  and  introducing 
them  abruptly,  —  an  abruptness  illustrated  by  the 
remark  of  "Old  Man  Iloskins  "  (which  Phelps 
liked  to  quote) ,  when  one  da}T  he  suddenly  slipped 
down  a  bank  into  a  thicket,  and  seated  himself 
in  a  wasps'  nest:  "I  hain't  no  business  here; 
but  here  I  be!  " 

The  first  time  we  went  into  camp  on  the  Upper 
Ausable  Pond,  which  has  been  justly  celebrated 
as  the  most  prettily  set  sheet  of  water  in  the  re 
gion,  we  were  disposed  to  build  our  shanty  on 
the  south  side,  so  that  we  could  have  in  full  view 
the  Gothics  and  that  loveliest  of  mountain  con 
tours.  To  our  surprise,  Old  Phelps,  whose  senti 
mental  weakness  for  these  mountains  we  knew, 
opposed  this.  His  favorite  camping-ground  was 
on  the  north  side,  —  a  pretty  site  in  itself,  but 
with  no  special  view.  In  order  to  enjoy  the  lovely 
mountains,  we  should  be  obliged  to  row  out  into 


A   CHARACTER  STUDY.  Ill 

the  lake  :  we  wanted  them  always  before  our 
e}*es,  —  at  sunrise  and  sunset,  and  in  the  blaze 
of  noon.  With  deliberate  speech,  as  if  weighing 
our  arguments  and  disposing  of  them,  he  replied, 
"Waal,  now,  them  Gothies  ain't  the  kinder 
scener}'  you  want  ter  hog  down  I  '  ' 

It  was  on  quiet  Sunda}"s  in  the  woods,  or  in 
talks  by  the  camp-fire,  that  Phelps  came  out  as 
the  philosopher,  and  commonly  contributed  the 
liglit  of  his  observations.  Unfortunate  marriages, 
and  marriages  in  general,  were,  on  one  occasion, 
the  subject  of  discussion  ;  and  a  good  deal  of 
darkness  had  been  cast  on  it  by  various  speakers  ; 
when  Phelps  suddenly  piped  up,  from  a  log  where 
he  had  sat  silent,  almost  invisible,  in  the  shadow 
and  smoke,  — 

"  Waal,  now,  when  you've  said  ah1  there  is  to 
be  said,  marriage  is  mostly  for  discipline." 

Discipline,  certainly,  the  old  man  had,  in  one 
way  or  another  ;  and  years  of  solitaiy  com 
muning  in  the  forest  had  given  him,  perhaps,  a 
childlike  insight  into  spiritual  concerns.  Wheth 
er  he  had  formulated  any  creed,  or  what  faith  he 


OF   THK 

UNIVERSITY 


112  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

had,  I  never  knew.  Keene  Valley  had  a  reputa 
tion  of  not  ripening  Christians  any  more  success- 
fulty  than  maize,  the  season  there  being  short ; 
and  on  our  first  visit  it  was  said  to  contain  but 
one  Bible  Christian,  though  I  think  an  accurate 
census  disclosed  three.  Old  Phelps,  who  some 
times  made  abrupt  remarks  in  trying  situations, 
was  not  included  in  this  census  ;  but  he  was  the 
disciple  of  supernaturalism  in  a  most  charming 
form.  I  have  heard  of  his  opening  his  inmost 
thoughts  to  a  lady,  one  Sunday,  after  a  noble 
sermon1  of  Robertson's  had  been  read  in  the 
cathedral  stillness  of  the  forest.  His  experience 
was  entirely  first-hand,  and  related  with  uncon 
sciousness  that  it  was  not  common  to  all.  There 
was  nothing  of  the  mystic  or  the  sentimentalist, 
only  a  vivid  realism,  in  that  nearness  of  God  of 
which  he  spoke,  —  "  as  near  sometimes  as  those 
tr^es,"  —and  of  the  holy  voice,  that,  in  a  time 
of  inward  struggle,  had  seemed  to  him  to  come 
from  the  depths  of  the  forest,  saying,  "  Poor 
soul,  I  am  the  way." 

In  later  years  there  was  a  "  revival  "  in  Keeue 


A   CHARACTER  STUDY.  113 

Valley,  the  result  of  which  was  a  number  of 
young  "  converts,"  whom  Phelps  seemed  to  re 
gard  as  a  veteran  might  raw  recruits,  and  to  have 
his  doubts  what  sort  of  soldiers  they  would  make. 

44  Waal,  Jimmy,"  he  said  to  one  of  them, 
"you've  kindled  a  pretty  good  fire  with  light 
wood.  That's  what  we  do  of  a  dark  night  in  the 
woods,  }'ou  know  ;  but  we  do  it  just  so  as  we  can 
look  around  and  find  the  solid  wood :  so  now 
put  on  3'our  solid  wood." 

In  the  Sunday  Bible-classes  of  the  period  Phelps 
was  a  perpetual  anxiety  to  the  others,  who  followed 
closely  the  printed  lessons,  and  beheld  with  alarm 
his  discursive  efforts  to  get  into  freer  air  and  light. 
His  remarks  were  the  most  refreshing  part  of  the 
exercises,  but  were  outside  of  the  safe  path  into 
which  the  others  thought  it  necessar}-  to  win  him 
from  his  "  speckerlations."  The  class  were  one 
da}  on  the  verses  concerning  "God's  word" 
being  "  written  on  the  heart,"  and  were  keeping 
close  to  the  shore,  under  the  guidance  of 
"  Barnes's  Notes,"  when  Old  Phelps  made  a  dive 
to  the  bottom,  and  remarked  that  he  had  "thought 


114  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

a  good  deal  about  the  expression,  '  God's  word 
written  on  the  heart,'  and  had  been  asking  him 
self  how  that  was  to  be  done ;  and  suddenly  it 
occurred  to  him  (having  been  much  interested 
lately  in  watching  the  work  of  a  photographer) , 
that,  when  a  photograph  is  going  to  be  taken,  all 
that  has  to  be  done  is  to  put  the  object  in  posi 
tion,  and  the  sun  makes  the  picture ;  and  so  he 
rather  thought  that  all  we  had  got  to  do  was  to 
put  our  hearts  in  place,  and  God  would  do  the 
writin'." 

Phelps's  theolog3T,  like  his  science,  is  first-hand. 
In  the  woods,  one  day,  talk  ran  on  the  Trinity  as 
being  nowhere  asserted  as  a  doctrine  in  the  Bible  ; 
and  some  one  suggested  that  the  attempt  to  pack 
these  great  and  fluent  mysteries  into  one  word 
must  always  be  more  or  less  unsatisfactory. 
"Te-es,"  droned  Phelps :  "I  never  could  see 
much  speckerlation  in  that  expression  the  Trinity. 
Why,  they'd  a  good  deal  better  say  Legion." 

The  sentiment  of  the  man  about  nature,  or  his 
poetic  sensibility,  was  frequently  not  to  be  dis- 
ti nguished  from  a  natural  religion,  and  wits  always 


A  CHARACTER  STUDY.  115 

tinged  with  the  devoutness  of  Wordsworth's 
verse.  Climbing  slowly  one  day  up  the  Bal- 
coiry,  —  he  was  more  than  usualty  calm  and  slow, 
—  he  espied  an  exquisite  fragile  flower  in  the 
crevice  of  a  rock,  in  a  very  lonely  spot. 

"It  seems  as  if,"  he  said,  or  rather  dreamed 
out,  —  "it  seems  as  if  the  Creator  had  kept  some 
thing  just  to  look  at  himself." 

To  a  lady  whom  he  had  taken  to  Chapel  Pond 
(a  retired  but  rather  uninteresting  spot) ,  and  who 
expressed  a  little  disappointment  at  its  tarneruess, 
saying, 

"  Wh}~,  Mr.  Phelps,  the  principal  charm  of 
this  place  seems  to  be  its  loneliness,"  — 

"Yes,"  he  replied  in  gentle  and  lingering 
tones,  "  and  its  nativeness.  It  lies  here  just 
where  it  was  born." 

Rest  and  quiet  had  infinite  attractions  for  him. 
A  secluded  opening  in  the  woods  was  a  "  calm 
spot."  He  told  of  seeing  once,  or  rather  being 
iw,  a  circular  rainbow.  He  stood  on  Indian  Head, 
overlooking  the  Lower  Lake,  so  that  he  saw  the 
whole  bow  in  the  sky  and  the  lake,  and  seemed  to 


116  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

be  in  the  midst  of  it ;  "  only  at  one  place  there 
was  an  indentation  in  it,  where  it  rested  on  the 
lake,  just  enough  to  keep  it  from  rolling  off." 
This  ' '  resting ' '  of  the  sphere  seemed  to  give 
him  great  comfort. 

One  Indian-summer  morning  in  October,  some 
ladies  found  the  old  man  sitting  on  his  doorstep, 
smoking  a  short  pipe.  lie  gave  no  sign  of  rec 
ognition  of  their  approach,  except  a  twinkle  of 
the  eye,  being  evidently  quite  in  harmony  with 
the  peaceful  day.  They  stood  there  a  full  minute 
before  he  opened  his  mouth :  then  he  did  not  rise, 
but  slowly  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and  said 
in  a  dreamy  wa}',  pointing  towards  the  brook,  — 

' '  Do  you  see  that  tree  ?  ' '  indicating  a  maple 
almost  denuded  of  leaves,  which  lay  like  a  yellow 
garment  east  at  its  feet.  "  I've  been  watching 
that  tree  all  the  morning.  There  hain't  been  a 
breath  of  wind :  but  for  hours  the  leaves  have 
been  falling,  falling,  just  as  you  see  them  now  ; 
and  at  last  it's  pretty  much  bare."  And  after  a 
pause,  pensively  :  "  Waal,  I  suppose  its  hour  had 
come." 


A   CHARACTER  STUDY.  117 

This  contemplative  habit  of  Old  Phelps  is 
wholly  unappreciated  by  his  neighbors  ;  but  it 
has  been  indulged  in  no  inconsiderable  part  of 
his  life.  Rising  after  a  time,  he  said,  "Now  T 
want  you  to  go  with  me  and  see  my  golden  city 
I've  talked  so  much  about."  He  led  the  wa}r  to 
a  hill-outlook,  when  suddenly,  emerging  from  the 
forest,  the  spectators  saw  revealed  the  winding 
valley  and  its  stream.  He  said  quietly,  "  There 
is  my  golden  city."  Far  below,  at  their  feet, 
they  saw  that  vast  assemblage  of  birches  and 
"  popples,"  3'cllow  as  gold  in  the  brooding  noon- 
da}r,  and  slender  spires  rising  out  of  the  glowing 
mass.  Without  another  word,  Phelps  sat  a  long 
time  in  silent  content :  it  was  to  him,  as  Bunyan 
says,  "  a  place  desirous  to  be  in." 

Is  this  philosopher  contented  with  what  life  has 
brought  him  ?  Speaking  of  monc}^  one  day,  when 
we  had  asked  him  if  he  should  do  differentl}*  if 
he  had  his  life  to  live  over  again,  he  said,  "  Yes, 
hut  not  about  money.  To  have  had  hours  such 
as  I  have  had  in  these  mountains,  and  with  such 
men  as  Dr.  Bushnell  and  Dr.  Shaw  and  Mr. 


118  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

Twichell,  and  others  I  could  name,  is  worth  all 
the  money  the  world  could  give."  He  read  char 
acter  very  well,  and  took  in  accurately  the  boy 
nature.  "Tom"  (an  irrepressible,  rather  over 
done  specimen) ,  —  "  Tom's  a  nice  kind  of  a  boy  ; 
but  he's  got  to  come  up  against  a  snubbin'-post 
one  of  these  days."  —  "  Boys  !  "  he  once  said  : 
' '  you  can't  git  boys  to  take  any  kinder  notice  of 
scenery.  I  never  yet  saw  a  boy  that  would  look 
a  second  time  at  a  sunset.  Now,  a  girl  will  some 
times;  but  even  then  it's  instantaneous,  — comes 
and  goes  like  the  sunset.  As  for  me,"  still  speak 
ing  of  scenery,  "these  mountains  about  here, 
that  I  see  every  day,  are  no  more  to  me,  in  one 
sense,  than  a  man's  farm  is  to  him.  What  mostly 
interests  me  now  is  when  I  see  some  new  freak 
or  shape  in  the  face  of  Nature." 

In  literature  it  may  be  said  that  Old  Phelps 
prefers  the  best  in  the  very  limited  range  that 
has  been  open  to  him.  Tennyson  is  his  favorite 
among  poets ;  an  affinity  explained  by  the  fact 
that  they  are  both  lotos-eaters.  Speaking  of  a 
lecture-room  talk  of  Mr.  Beecher's  which  he  had 


A  CHARACTER  STUDY.  119 

read,  lie  said,  "  It  filled  my  cup  about  as  full  as 
I  callerlate  to  have  it :  there  was  a  good  deal  of 
truth  in  it,  and  some  poetry ;  waal,  and  a  little 
epice  too.  We've  got  to  have  the  spice,  you 
know."  He  admired,  for  different  reasons,  a 
lecture  by  Greeley  that  he  once  heard,  into  which 
so  much  knowledge  of  various  kinds  was  crowded, 
that  he  said  he  "  made  a  reg'lar  gobble  of  it." 
lie  was  not  without  discrimination,  which  he  ex 
ercised  upon  the  local  preaching  when  nothing 
better  offered.  Of  one  sermon  he  said,  "  The 
man  began  way  back  at  the  creation,  and  just 
preached  right  along  down ;  and  he  didn't  say 
nothing,  after  all.  It  just  seemed  to  me  as  if  he 
was  tryin'  to  git  up  a  kind  of  a  fix-up." 

Old  Phelps  used  words  sometimes  like  alge 
braic  signs,  and  had  a  habit  of  making  one  do 
duty  for  a  season  together  for  all  occasions. 
"  Speckerlation  "  and  "  callerlation  "  and  "fix- 
up  "  are  specimens  of  words  that  were  prolific 
in  expression.  An  unusual  expression,  or  an 
ur  usual  article,  would  be  characterized  as  a  "  kind 
of  a  scientific  literary  git-up." 


120  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

' '  What  is  the  programme  for  to-morrow  ?  "  I 
once  asked  him.  "Waal,  I  callcrlate,  if  they 
rig  up  the  callerlation  they  callerlate  on,  we'll  go 
to  the  Boreas."  Starting  out  for  a  day's  tramp 
in  the  woods,  he  would  ask  whether  we  wanted 
to  take  a  "  reg'lar  walk,  or  a  random  scoot,"  — 
the  latter  being  a  plunge  into  the  pathless  forest. 
When  he  was  on  such  an  expedition,  and  became 
entangled  in  dense  brush,  and  maybe  a  network 
of  "  slash  "  and  swamp,  he  was  like  an  old  wiz 
ard,  as  he  looked  here  and  there,  seeking  a  wajT, 
peering  into  the  tangle,  or  withdrawing  from  a 
thicket,  and  muttering  to  himself,  "  There  ain't  no 
speckerlation  there."  And  when  the  way  became 
altogether  inscrutable,  —  "Waal,  this  is  a  reg'lar 
random  scoot  of  a  rigmarole."  As  some  one  re 
marked,  "The  dictionary  in  his  hands  is  like  clay 
in  the  hands  of  the  potter."  A  petrifaction  was 
a  "  kind  of  a  hard-wood  chemical  git-up." 

There  is  no  conceit,  we  are  apt  to  saj^,  .like  that 
born  of  isolation  from  the  world,  and  there  are 
no  such  conceited  people  as  those  who  have  lived 
all  their  lives  in  the  woods.  Phelps  was,  however. 


A   CHARACTER  STUDY.  121 

unsophisticated  in  his  until  the  advent  of  stran 
gers  into  his  life,  who  brought  in  literature  and 
\nrious  other  disturbing  influences.  I  am  sorry 
lo  sa}T  that  the  effect  has  been  to  take  off  some 
thing  of  the  bloom  of  his  simplicity,  and  to  ele 
vate  him  into  an  oracle.  I  suppose  this  is  inevi 
table  as  soon  as  one  goes  into  print ;  and  Phclps 
has  gone  into  print  in  the  local  papers.  He  has 
been  bitten  with  the  literar}-  "git-up."  Justly 
regarding  most  of  the  Adirondack  literature  as  a 
u  perfect  fizzle,"  he  has  himself  projected  a  work, 
and  written  much  on  the  natural  history  of  his 
region.  Long  ago  he  made  a  large  map  of  the 
mountain  country ;  and,  until  recent  surveys,  it 
•was  the  only  one  that  could  lay  an}'  claim  to  ac- 
curac}'.  His  history  is  no  doubt  original  in  form, 
and  unconventional  in  expression.  Like  most  of 
the  writers  of  the  seventeenth  century,  and  the 
court  ladies  and  gentlemen  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tuiy,  he  is  an  independent  speller.  Writing  of 
his  work  on  the  Adirondacks,  he  sr^'s,  "If  I 
should  ever  live  to  get  this  wonderful  thing  writ 
ten,  I  expect  it  will  show  one  thing,  if  no  more ; 


122  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

and  that  is,  that  every  thing  has  an  opposite.  I 
expect  to  show  in  this  that  literature  has  an  oppo 
site,  if  I  do  not  show  any  thing  els.  We  could 
not  enjo}T  the  blessings  and  happiness  of  riteous- 
ness  if  we  did  not  know  innicut}^  was  in  the 
world  :  in  fact,  there  would  be  no  riteousness  with 
out  innicut}T."  Writing  also  of  his  great  enjoy 
ment  of  being  in  the  woods,  especially  since  he 
has  had  the  society  there  of  some  people  he 
names,  he  adds,  "And  since  I  have  Literature, 
Siance,  and  Art  all  spread  about  on  the  green 
moss  of  the  mountain  woods  or  the  gravell  banks 
of  a  cristle  stream,  it  seems  like  finding  roses,  hon- 
eysuckels,  and  violets  on  a  crisp  brown  cliff  in 
December.  You  know  I  don't  believe  much  in 
the  religion  of  seramony  ;  but  any  riteous  thing 
that  has  life  and  spirit  in  it  is  food  for  me."  I 
must  not  neglect  to  mention  an  essay,  continued 
in  several  numbers  of  his  local  paper,  on  "The 
Growth  of  the  Tree,"  in  which  he  demolishes  the 
theory  of  Mr.  Greeley,  whom  he  calls  "one  of 
the  best  vegetable  philosophers,"  about  "growth 
without  seed."  He  treats  of  the  office  of  sap: 


A   CHARACTER  STUDY.  123 

u  All  trees  have  some  kind  of  sap  and  some  kind 
of  operation  of  sap  flowing  in  their  season,"  — 
the  dissemination  of  seeds,  the  processes  of 
growth,  the  power  of  healing  wounds,  the  pro 
portion  of  roots  to  branches,  &c.  Speaking  of 
the  latter,  he  says,  "  I  have  thought  it  would  be 
one  of  the  greatest  curiosities  on  earth  to  see  a 
thrifty  growing  maple  or  elm,  that  had  grown  on  a 
deep  soil  interval  to  be  two  feet  in  diameter,  to  be 
raised  clear  into  the  air  with  every  root  and  fibre 
down  to  the  minutest  thread,  all  entirely  cleared 
of  soil,  so  that  every  particle  could  be  seen  in  its 
natural  position.  I  think  it  would  astonish  even 
the  wise  ones."  From  his  instinctive  sympathy 
with  nature,  he  often  credits  vegetable  organism 
with  "instinctive  judgment."  "  Observation 
teaches  us  that  a  tree  is  given  powerful  instincts, 
which  would  almost  appear  to  amount  to  judg 
ment  in  some  cases,  to  provide  for  its  own  wants 
and  necessities." 

Here  our  study  must  cease.  When  the  primi 
tive  man  comes  into  literature,  he  is  no  longer 
primitive. 


VI. 


CAMPING    OUT. 

|T  seems  to  be  agreed  that  civilization  is 
kept  up  only  by  a  constant  effort :  Nature 
claims  its  own  speedily  when  the  effort  is 
relaxed.  If  3*011  clear  a  patch  of  fertile  ground 
in  the  forest,  uproot  the  stumps,  and  plant  it, 
ycsiY  after  year,  in  potatoes  and  maize,  }TOU  say 
you  have  subdued  it.  But,  if  }TOU  leave  it  for  a 
season  or  two,  a  kind  of  barbarism  seems  to  steal 
out  upon  it  from  the  circling  woods  ;  coarse  grass 
and  brambles  cover  it ;  bushes  spring  up  in  a 
wild  tangle ;  the  raspberiy  and  the  blackberry 
flower  and  fruit,  and  the  humorous  bear  feeds 
upon  them.  The  last  state  of  that  ground  is 
worse  than  the  first. 

Perhaps  the  cleared  spot  is   called  Ephesus. 

124 


XJNI 
CAMPING  OUT.  125 


There  is  a  splendid  city  on  the  plain ;  there  are 
temples  and  theatres  on  the  hills  ;  the  commerce 
of  the  world  seeks  its  port ;  the  luxury  of  the 
Orient  flows  through  its  marble  streets.  You  are 
there  one  day  when  the  sea  has  receded :  the 
plain  is  a  pestilent  marsh ;  the  temples,  the 
theatres,  the  lofty  gates,  have  sunken  and  crum 
bled,  and  the  wild-brier  runs  over  them  ;  and,  as 
you  grow  pensive  in  the  most  desolate  place  in 
the  world,  a  bandit  lounges  out  of  a  tomb,  and 
offers  to  relieve  you  of  all  that  which  creates 
artificial  distinctions  in  society.  The  higher  the 
civilization  has  risen,  the  more  abject  is  the  des 
olation  of  barbarism  that  ensues.  The  most 
melancholy  spot  in  the  Adirondacks  is  not  a 
tamarack-swamp,  where  the  traveller  wades  in 
moss  and  mire,  and  the  atmosphere  is  composed 
of  equal  active  parts  of  black-flies,  mosquitoes, 
and  midges.  It  is  the  village  of  the  Adirondack 
Iron -Works,  where  the  streets  of  gaunt  houses  are 
falling  to  pieces,  tenantless ;  the  factory- wheels 
have  stopped  ;  the  furnaces  are  in  ruins  ;  the  iron 
and  wooden  machinery  is  strewn  about  in  helpless 


126  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

detachment ;  and  heaps  of  charcoal,  ore,  and 
slag,  proclaim  an  arrested  industr}-.  Beside  this 
deserted  village,  even  Calamity  Pond,  shallow, 
sedgy,  with  its  ragged  shores  of  stunted  firs, 
and  its  melancholy  shaft  that  marks  the  spot 
where  the  proprietor  of  the  iron-works  accident 
ally  shot  himself,  is  cheerful. 

The  instinct  of  barbarism  that  leads  people 
periodically  to  throw  aside  the  habits  of  civiliza 
tion,  and  seek  the  freedom  and  discomfort  of  the 
woods,  is  explicable  enough ;  but  it  is  not  so 
easy  to  understand  why  this  passion  should  be 
strongest  in  those  who  are  most  refined,  and  most 
trained  in  intellectual  and  social  fastidiousness. 
Philistinism  and  shoddy  do  not  like  the  woods, 
unless  it  becomes  fashionable  to  do  so  ;  and  then, 
as  speedily  as  possible,  they  introduce  their  arti 
ficial  luxuries,  and  reduce  the  life  in  the  wilder 
ness  to  the  vulgarity  of  a  well-fed  picnic.  It  is 
they  who  have  strewn  the  Adirondacks  with 
paper  :  )llars  and  tin  cans.  The  real  cnjoj'ment 
of  camping  and  tramping  in  the  woods  lies  in  a 
return  to  primitive  conditions  of  lodging,  dress, 


CAMPING  OUT.  127 


and  food,  in  as  total  an  escape  as  may  te  from 
the  requirements  of  civilization.  And  it  remains 
to  be  explained  why  this  is  enjoyed  most  by  those 
who  are  most  highly  civilized.  It  is  wonderful 
to  see  how  easily  the  restraints  of  society  fall 
off.  Of  course  it  is  not  true  that  courtesy 
depends  upon  clothes  with  the  best  people ;  but, 
with  others,  behavior  hangs  almost  entirely  upon 
dress.  Many  good  habits  are  easily  got  rid  of 
in  the  woods.  Doubt  sometimes  seems  to  be  felt 
whether  Sunda}'  is  a  legal  holiday  there.  It  be 
comes  a  question  of  casuistry  with  a  clergyman 
whether  he  may  shoot  at  a  mark  on  Sunday,  if 
none  of  his  congregation  arc  present.  He  in 
tends  no  harm :  he  only  gratifies  a  curiosity  to 
see  if  he  can  hit  the  mark.  Where  shall  he  dra  v 
the  line  ?  Doubtless  he  might  throw  a  stone  at  a 
chipmunk,  or  shout  at  a  loon.  Might  he  fire  at  a 
mark  with  an  air-gun  that  makes  no  noise  ?  He 
will  not  fish  or  hunt  on  Sunday  (although  he  is 
no  more  likely  to  catch  any  thing  that  day  than 
on  any  other)  ;  but  may  he  eat  trout  that  the 
gi  ide  has  caught  on  Sundaj',  if  the  guide  swears 


128  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

he  caught  them  Saturday  night  ?  Is  there  such  a 
thing  as  a  vacation  in  religion  ?  How  much  of 
our  virtue  do  we  owe  to  inherited  habits  ? 

I  am  not  at  all  sure  whether  this  desire  to 
camp  outside  of  civilization  is  creditable  to  hu 
man  nature,  or  otherwise.  We  hear  sometimes 
that  the  Turk  has  been  merely  camping  for  four 
centuries  in  Europe.  I  suspect  that  man}'  of  us 
are,  after  all,  really  camping  temporarily  in  civil 
ized  conditions  ;  and  that  going  into  the  wilder 
ness  is  an  escape,  longed  for,  into  our  natural 
and  preferred  state.  Consider  what  this  "  camp 
ing  out  "is,  that  is  confessedly  so  agreeable  to 
people  most  delicately  reared.  I  have  no  desire 
to  exaggerate  its  delights. 

The  Adirondack  wilderness  is  essentially  un 
broken.  A  few  bad  roads  that  penetrate  it,  a  few 
jolting  wagons  that  traverse  them,  a  few  barn- 
like  boarding-houses  on  the  edge  of  the  forest, 
where  the  boarders  are  soothed  by  patent  coffee, 
and  stimulated  to  unnatural  gayety  by  Japan  tea, 
and  experimented  on  by  unique  cooker}^,  do  little 
to  destroy  the  savage  fascination  of  the  region 


CAMPING   OUT.  129 


In  half  an  hour,  at  any  point,  one  can  put  him 
self  into  solitude  and  every  desirable  discomfort. 
The  part)1  that  covets  the  experience  of  the  camp 
comes  down  to  primitive  conditions  of  dress  and 
equipment.  There  are  guides  and  porters  to 
carry  the  blankets  for  beds,  the  raw  provisions, 
and  the  camp  equipage  ;  and  the  motley  party  of 
the  temporarily  dccivilized  files  into  the  woods, 
and  begins,  perhaps  by  a  road,  perhaps  on  a 
trail,  its  exhilarating  and  weary  march.  The 
exhilaration  arises  partly  from  the  casting  aside 
of  restraint,  parti}'  from  the  adventure  of  explo 
ration  ;  and  the  weariness,  from  the  interminable 
toil  of  bad  walking,  a  heavy  pack,  and  the  grim 
monoton}'  of  trees  and  bushes,  that  shut  out  all 
prospect,  except  an  occasional  glimpse  of  the  sky. 
Mountains  are  painfully  climbed,  streams  forded, 
lonesome  lakes  paddled  over,  long  and  muddy 
" carries"  traversed.  Fancy  this  party  the  vic 
tim  of  political  exile,  banished  by  the  law,  and  a 
more  sorrowful  march  could  not  be  imagined ; 
but  the  voluntary  hardship  becomes  pleasure, 
and  it  is  undeniable  that  the  spirits  of  the  party 
rise  as  the  difficulties  increase. 


130  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

For  this  straggling  and  stmnblrjg  band  the 
world  is  young  again :  it  has  come  to  the  begin 
ning  of  things ;  it  has  cut  loose  from  tradition, 
and  is  free  to  make  a  home  anywhere  :  the  move 
ment  has  all  the  promise  of  a  revolution.  All 
this  virginal  freshness  invites  the  primitive  in 
stincts  of  play  and  disorder.  The  free  range 
of  the  forests  suggests  endless  possibilities  of 
exploration  and  possession.  Perhaps  we  are 
treading  where  man  since  the  creation  never 
trod  before  ;  perhaps  the  waters  of  this  bubbling 
spring,  which  we  deepen  by  scraping  out  the 
decayed  leaves  and  the  black  earth,  have  never 
been  tasted  before,  except  by  the  wild  denizens 
of  these  woods.  We  cross  the  trails  of  lurking 
animals, — paths  that  heighten  our  sense  of 
seclusion  from  the  world.  The  hammering  of 
the  infrequent  woodpecker,  the  call  of  the  lonely 
bird,  the  drumming  of  the  solitary  partridge,  — 
all  these  sounds  do  but  emphasize  the  lonesome- 
ness  of  nature.  The  roar  of  the  mountain  brook, 
dashing  over  its  bed  o:'  pebbles,  rising  out  of  the 
ravine,  and  spreading,  as  it  were,  a  mist  of  sound 


CAMPING  OUT.  131 


through  all  the  forest  (continuous  beating  waves, 
that  have  the  rhythm  of  eternity  in  them) ,  and 
the  fitful  movement  of  the  air-tides  through  the 
balsams  and  firs  and  the  giant  pines, — how  these 
grand  symphonies  shut  out  the  little  exaspera 
tions  of  our  vexed  life  !  It  seems  easy  to  begin 
life  over  again  on  the  simplest  terms.  Probably 
it  is  not  so  much  the  desire  of  the  congregation 
to  escape  from  the  preacher,  or  of  the  preacher 
to  escape  from  himself,  that  drives  sophisticated 
people  into  the  wilderness,  as  it  is  the  uncon- 
qucred  craving  for  primitive  simplicity,  the  revolt 
against  the  everlasting  dress-parade  of  our  civili 
zation.  From  this  monstrous  pomposity  even 
the  artificial  rusticity  of  a  Petit  Trianon  is  a 
relief.  It  was  only  human  nature  that  the  jaded 
Frenchman  of  the  regency  should  run  away  to 
the  New  World,  and  live  in  a  forest-hut  with  an 
Indian  squaw ;  although  he  found  little  satisfac 
tion  in  his  act  of  heroism,  unless  it  was  talked 
about  at  Versailles. 

When  our  trampers  come,  late  in  the  after 
noon,  to  the  bank  of  a  lovely  lake  where  they 


132  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

purpose  to  enter  the  primitive  life,  every  thing  is 
waiting  for  them  in  virgin  expectation.  There  is 
a  little  promontory  jutting  into  the  lake,  and 
sloping  down  to  a  sandy  beach,  on  which  the 
waters  idly  lapse,  and  shoals  of  red-fins  and 
shiners  come  to  greet  the  stranger ;  the  forest 
is  untouched  by  the  axe ;  the  tender  green 
sweeps  the  water's  edge ;  ranks  of  slender  firs 
are  marshalled  by  the  shore ;  clumps  of  white- 
birch  stems  shine  in  satin  purity  among  the  ever 
greens  ;  the  boles  of  giant  spruces,  maples,  and 
oaks,  lifting  high  their  crowns  of  foliage,  stretch 
awa}T  in  endless  galleries  and  arcades ;  through 
the  shifting  leaves  the  sunshine  falls  upon  the 
brown  earth ;  overhead  are  fragments  of  blue 
sky ;  under  the  boughs  and  in  chance  openings 
appear  the  bluer  lake  and  the  outline  of  the 
gracious  mountains.  The  discoverers  of  this 
paradise,  which  they  have  entered  to  destroy, 
note  the  babbling  of  the  brook  that  flows  close  at 
hand ;  they  hear  the  splash  of  the  leaping  fish ; 
they  listen  to  the  sweet,  metallic  song  of  the 
evening  thrush,  and  the  chatter  of  the  red 


CAMPING  OUT.  133 

squirrel,  who  angrily  challenges  their  right  to  be 
there.  But  the  moment  of  sentiment  passes. 
This  party  has  come  here  to  eat  and  to  sleep, 
and  not  to  encourage  Nature  in  her  poetic  atti 
tudinizing. 

The  spot  for  a  shanty  is  selected.  This  side 
shall  be  its  opening,  towards  the  lake ;  and  in 
front  of  it  the  fire,  so  that  the  smoke  shall  drift 
into  the  hut,  and  discourage  the  mosquitoes ; 
3*oncler  shall  be  the  cook's  fire  and  the  path  to 
the  spring.  The  whole  colon}'  bestir  themselves 
in  the  foundation  of  a  new  home,  —  an  enterprise 
that  has  all  the  fascination,  and  none  of  the 
danger,  of  a  veritable  new  settlement  in  the  wil 
derness.  The  axes  of  the  guides  resound  in  the 
echoing  spaces ;  great  trunks  fall  with  a  crash ; 
vistas  are  opened  towards  the  lake  and  the  moun 
tains.  The  spot  for  the  shanty  is  cleared  of 
underbrush ;  forked  stakes  arc  driven  into  the 
ground,  cross-pieces  are  laid  on  them,  and  poles 
sloping  back  to  the  ground.  In  an  incredible 
space  of  time  there  is  the  skeleton  of  a  house, 
which  is  entirely  open  in  front.  The  roof  and 


134  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

sides  must  be  covered.  For  this  purpose  the 
trunks  of  great  spruces  are  skinned.  The  wood 
man  rims  the  bark  near  the  foot  of  the  tree,  ai  d 
again  six  feet  above,  and  slashes  it  perpendicu 
larly  ;  then,  with  a  blunt  stick,  he  crowds  off  this 
thick  hide  exactly  as  an  ox  is  skinned.  It  needs 
but  a  few  of  these  skins  to  cover  the  roof ;  and 
they  make  a  perfectly  water-tight  roof,  except 
when  it  rains.  Meantime,  busy  hands  have 
gathered  boughs  of  the  spruce  and  the  feathery 
balsam,  and  shingled  the  ground  underneath  the 
shanty  for  a  bed.  It  is  an  aromatic  bed :  in 
theory  it  is  elastic  and  consoling.  Upon  it  are 
spread  the  blankets.  The  sleepers,  of  all  sexes 
and  ages,  are  to  lie  there  in  a  row,  their  feet  to 
the  fire,  and  their  heads  under  the  edge  of  the 
sloping  roof.  Nothing  could  be  better  contrived. 
The  fire  is  in  front :  it  is  not  a  fire,  but  a  confla 
gration  —  a  vast  heap  of  green  logs  set  on  fire  — 
of  pitch,  and  split  dead-wood,  and  crackling  bal 
sams,  raging  and  roaring.  By  the  time  twilight 
falls,  the  cook  has  prepared  supper.  Every  thing 
has  been  cooked  in  a  tin  pail  and  a  skillet,— 


CAMPING  OUT.  135 


potatoes,  tea,  pork,  mutton,  slapjacks.  You 
wonder  how  every  thing  could  have  been  prepared 
in  so  lov  utensils.  When  3-011  eat,  the  wonder  \ 
ceases :  every  thing  might  have  been  cooked  in 
one  pail.  It  is  a  noble  meal ;  and  nobty  is  it 
disposed  of  by  these  amateur  savages,  sitting 
about  upon  logs  and  roots  of  trees.  Never  were 
there  such  potatoes,  never  beans  that  seemed  to 
have  more  of  the  bean  in  them,  never  such  curly 
pork,  never  trout  with  more  Indian-meal  on 
them,  never  mutton  more  distinctly  sheepy ;  and 
tl.e  tea,  drunk  out  of  a  tin  cup,  with  a  lump  of 
maple-sugar  dissolved  in  it,  —  it  is  the  sort  of 
tea  that  takes  hold,  lifts  the  hair,  and  disposes 
the  drinker  to  anecdote  and  hilariousness.  There 
is  no  deception  about  it :  it  tastes  of  tannin  and 
spruce  and  creosote.  Every  thing,  in  short,  has 
the  flavor  of  the  wilderness  and  a  free  life.  It  is 
idyllic.  And  yet,  with  all  our  sentimentality, 
there  is  nothing  feeble  about  the  cooking.  The 
slapjacks  are  a  solid  job  of  work,  made  to  last, 
and  not  go  to  pieces  in  a  person's  stomach  like 
a  trivial  bun  :  we  might  record  on  them,  in  cunci- 


IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 


form  characters,  our  incipient  civilization  ;  and 
future  generations  would  doubtless  turn  them  up 
as  Acadian  bricks.  Good,  robust  victuals  are 
what  the  primitive  man  wants. 

Darkness  falls  suddenly.  Outside  the  ring  of 
light  from  our  conflagration  the  woods  are  black. 
There  is  a  tremendous  impression  of  isolation 
and  lonesomencss  in  our  situation.  We  are  the 
prisoners  of  the  night.  The  woods  never  seemed 
so  vast  and  mysterious.  The  trees  arc  gigantic. 
There  are  noises  that  we  do  not  understand,  — 
nrysterious  winds  passing  overhead,  and  rambling 
in  the  great  galleries,  tree-trunks  grinding  against 
each  other,  undefinable  stirs  and  uneasinesses. 
The  shapes  of  those  who  pass  into  the  dimness 
are  outlined  in  monstrous  proportions.  The 
spectres,  seated  about  in  the  glare  of  the  fire, 
talk  about  appearances  and  presentiments  and 
religion.  The  guides  cheer  the  night  with  bear- 
fights,  and  catamount  encounters,  and  frozen-to- 
death  experiences,  and  simple  tales  of  great 
piolixity  and  no  point,  and  jokes  of  primitive 
lucidity.  We  hear  catamounts,  and  the  stealth}' 


CAMPING   OUT.  137 


tread  of  things  in  the  leaves,  and  the  hooting  of 
owls,  and,  when  the  moon  rises,  the  laughter  of 
the  loon.  Every  thing  is  strange,  spectral,  fasci 
nating. 

By  and  by  we  get  our  positions  in  the  shanty 
for  the  night,  and  arrange  the  row  of  sleepers. 
The  shanty  has  become  a  smoke-house  by  this 
time :  waves  of  smoke  roll  into  it  from  the  fire. 
It  is  only  by  lying  down,  and  getting  the  head 
well  under  the  eaves,  that  one  can  breathe.  ICo 
one  can  find  her  "  things  ;  "  uobcKty  has  a  pillow. 
At  length  the  row  is  laid  out,  with  the  solemn 
protestation  of  intention  to  sleep.  The  wind, 
shifting,  drives  away  the  smoke.  Good- night  is 
said  a  hundred  times ;  positions  are  re-adjusted, 
more  last  words,  new  shifting  about,  final  re 
marks  ;  it  is  all  so  comfortable  and  romantic ; 
and  then  silence.  Silence  continues  for  a  minute. 
The  fire  flashes  up ;  all  the  row  of  heads  is  lifted 
up  simultaneously  to  watch  it ;  showers  of  sparks 
sail  aloft  into  the  blue  night ;  the  vast  vault  of 
greener}7  is  a  faiiy  spectacle.  How  the  spark;? 
mount  and  twinkle  and  disappear  like  tropical 


138  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

fire-flies,  and  all  the  leaves  murmur,  and  clap 
their  hands  !  Some  of  the  sparks  do  not  go  out : 
we  see  them  flaming  in  the  sky  when  the  flame 
of  the  fire  has  died  down.  Well,  good-night, 
good-night.  More  folding  of  the  arms  to  sleep  ; 
more  grumbling  about  the  hardness  of  a  hand 
bag,  or  the  insufficiency  of  a  pocket-handkerchief, 
for  a  pillow.  Good-night.  Was  that  a  remark  ? 
—  something  about  a  root,  a  stub  in  the  ground 
sticking  into  the  back.  "  You  couldn't  lie  along 
a  hair?"  —  "Well,  no:  here's  another  stub." 
It  needs  but  a  moment  for  the  conversation  to 
become  general,  —  about  roots  under  the  shoulder, 
stubs  in  the  back,  a  ridge  on  which  it  is  impos 
sible  for  the  sleeper  to  balance,  the  non-elasticity 
of  boughs,  the  hardness  of  the  ground,  the  heat, 
the  smoke,  the  chilly  air.  Subjects  of  remarks 
multiply.  The  whole  camp  is  awake,  and  chat 
tering  like  an  aviary.  The  owl  is  also  awake  ; 
but  the  guides  who  are  asleep  outside  make  more 
noise  than  the  owls.  Water  is  wanted,  and  is 
handed  about  in  a  dipper.  Everj'bod}'  is  yawn 
ing  ;  everybody  is  now  determined  to  go  to  sleep 


CAMPING   OUT.  139 


in  good  earnest.  A  last  good-night.  There  is 
an  appalling  silence.  It  is  interrupted  in  the 
most  natural  way  in  the  world.  Somebody  has 
got  the  start,  and  gone  to  sleep.  He  proclaims 
the  fact.  He  seems  to  have  been  brought  up  on 
the  seashore,  and  to  know  how  to  make  all  the 
deep-toned  noises  of  the  restless  ocean.  He  is 
also  like  a  war-horse  ;  or,  it  is  suggested,  like  a 
saw-horse.  How.  malignantly  he  snorts,  and 
breaks  off  short,  and  at  once  begins  again  in 
another  key !  One  head  is  raised  after  another. 

"Who  is  that?" 

"  Somebody  punch  him." 

"  Turn  him  over." 

"  Reason  with  him." 

The  sleeper  is  turned  over.  The  turn  was  a 
mistake.  He  was  before,  it  appears,  on  his  most 
agreeable  side.  The  camp  rises  in  indignation. 
The  sleeper  sits  up  in  bewilderment.  Before  he 
can  go  off  again,  two  or  three  others  have  pre 
ceded  him.  They  are  all  alike.  You  never  can 
judge  what  a  person  is  when  he  is  awake.  There 
are  here  half  a  dozen  disturbers  of  the  peace  who 


140  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

should  be  put  in  solitary  confinement.  At  mid 
night,  when  a  philosopher  crawls  out  to  sit  on  a 
log  by  the  fire,  and  smoke  a  pipe,  a  duet  in  tenor 
and  mezzo-soprano  is  going  on  in  the  shanty, 
with  a  chorus  always  coming  in  at  the  wrong  time. 
Those  who  are  not  asleep  want  to  know  why  the 
smoker  doesn't  go  to  bed.  He  is  requested  to 
get  some  water,  to  throw  on  another  log,  to  see 
what  time  it  is,  to  note  whether  it  looks  like  rain. 
A  buzz  of  conversation  arises.  She  is  sure  she 
heard  something  behind  the  shanty.  He  says  it 
is  all  nonsense.  "  Perhaps,  however,  it  might  be 
a  mouse." 

' '  Mercy  !     Are  there  mice  ?  ' ' 

"Plenty." 

"Then  that's  what  I  heard  nibbling  by  my 
head.  I  sha'n't  sleep  a  wink  !  Do  they  bite?  " 

"No,  they  nibble;  scarcely  ever  take  a  full 
bite  out." 

"  It's  horrid !" 

Towards  morning  it  grows  chilly ;  the  guides 
have  let  the  fire  go  out ;  the  blankets  will  slip 
down.  Anxiety  begins  to  be  expressed  about  the 
dawn. 


CAMPING  OUT.  141 


"  What  time  does  the  sun  rise?  " 

"  Awful  early.     Did  you  sleep?  " 

"  Not  a  wink.     And  you.?  " 

44  In  spots.  I'm  going  to  dig  up  this  root  as 
soon  as  it  is  light  enough." 

44  See  that  mist  on  the  lake,  and  the  light  just 
coming  on  the  Gothics !  I'd  no  idea  it  was  so 
cold  :  all  the  first  part  of  the  night  I  was  roasted." 

"  What  were  they  talking  about  all  night?  " 

When  the  party  crawls  out  to  the  early  break 
fast,  after  it  has  washed  its  faces  in  the  lake,  it 
is  disorganized,  but  cheerful.  Nobody  admits 
much  sleep  ;  but  everybody  is  refreshed,  and  de 
clares  it  delightful.  It  is  the  fresh  air  all  night 
that  invigorates ;  or  ma}*be  it  is  the  tea,  or  the 
slapjacks.  The  guides  have  erected  a  table  of 
spruce  bark,  with  benches  at  the  sides ;  so  that 
breakfast  is  taken  in  form.  It  is  served  on  tin 
p'ates  and  oak  chips.  After  breakfast  begins  the 
day's  work.  It  may  be  a  mountain-climbing  ex 
pedition,  or  rowing  and  angling  in  the  lake,  or 
fishing  for  trout  in  some  stream  two  or  three  miles 
distant.  Nobody  can  stir  far  from  camp  without 


142  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

a  guide.  Hammocks  are  swung,  bowers  are 
built,  novel-reading  begins,  worsted  work  ap 
pears,  cards  are  shuffled  and  dealt.  The  day 
passes  in  absolute  freedom  from  responsibilit}'  to 
one's  self.  At  night,  when  the  expeditions  re 
turn,  the  camp  resumes  its  animation.  Adven 
tures  are  recounted,  every  statement  of  the 
narrator  being  disputed  and  argued.  Everybody 
has  become  an  adept  in  wood-craft ;  but  nobody 
credits  his  neighbor  with  like  instinct.  Society 
getting  resolved  into  its  elements,  confidence  is 
gone. 

Whilst  the  hilarious  part}r  are  at  supper,  a  drop 
or  two  of  rain  falls.  The  head  guide  is  appealed 
to.  Is  it  going  to  rain?  He  says  it  does  rain. 
But  will  it  be  a  rainy  night?  The  guide  goes 
down  to  the  lake,  looks  at  the  sk}7,  and  concludes, 
that,  if  the  wind  shifts  a  p'int  more,  there  is  no 
telling  what  sort  of  weather  we  shall  have.  Mean 
time  the  drops  patter  thicker  on  the  leaves  over 
head,  am',  the  leaves,  in  turn,  pass  the  wate::  down 
to  the  table ;  the  sky  darkens  ;  the  wind  rises ; 
there  is  a  kind  of  shiver  in  the  woods ;  and  we 


CAMPING  OUT. 


scud  away  into  the  shant}',  taking  the  remains  of 
our  supper,  and  eating  it  as  best  we  can.  The 
rain  increases.  The  fire  sputters  and  fumes.  All 
the  trees  are  dripping,  dripping,  and  the  ground 
is  wet.  We  cannot  step  out-doors  without  get 
ting  a  drenching.  Like  sheep,  we  are  penned  in 
the  little  hut,  where  no  one  can  stand  erect. 
The  rain  swirls  into  the  open  front,  and  wets 
the  bottom  of  the  blankets.  The  smoke  drives 
in.  We  curl  up,  and  enjo}T  ourselves.  The 
guides  at  length  conclude  that  it  is  going  to  be 
damp.  The  dismal  situation  sets  us  all  into  good 
spirits  ;  and  it  is  later  than  the  night  before  when 
we  crawl  under  our  blankets,  sure  this  time  of  a 
sound  sleep,  lulled  b}T  the  storm  and  the  rain  re 
sounding  on  the  bark  roof.  How  much  better  off 
we  are  than  many  a  shelterless  wretch  !  We  are 
as  snug  as  dry  herrings.  At  the  moment,  how 
ever,  of  dropping  off  to  sleep,  somebod}'  unfortu 
nately  notes  a  drop  of  water  on  his  face  ;  this  is 
followed  by  another  drop  ;  in  an  instant  a  stream 
is  established.  He  moves  his  head  to  a  dry  place. 
Scarcely  has  he  done  so,  when  he  feels  a  damp- 


144  Z2V  TILE  WILDERNESS. 

ness  in  his  back.  Reaching  his  hand  outside, 
he  finds  a  puddle  of  water  soaking  through  his 
blanket.  By  this  time,  somebody  inquires  if 
it  is  possible  that  the  roof  leaks.  One  man  has 
a  stream  of  water  under  him  ;  another  says  it  is 
coming  into  his  ear.  The  roof  appears  to  be  a 
discriminating  sieve.  Those  who  are  dry  see  no 
need  of  such  a  fuss.  The  man  in  the  corner 
spreads  his  umbrella,  and  the  protective  measure 
is  resented  by  his  neighbor.  In  the  darkness 
there  is  recrimination.  One  of  the  guides,  who 
is  summoned,  suggests  that  the  rubber  blankets 
be  passed  out,  and  spread  over  the  roof.  The  in 
mates  dislike  the  proposal,  saying  that  a  shower- 
bath  is  no  worse  than  a  tub-bath.  The  rain  con 
tinues  to  soak  down.  The  fire  is  only  half  alive. 
The  bedding  is  damp.  Some  sit  up,  if  they  can 
find  a  dry  spot  to  sit  on,  and  smoke.  Heartless 
observations  are  made.  A  few  sleep.  And  the 
night  wears  on.  The  morning  opens  cheerless. 
The  sky  is  still  leaking,  and  so  is  the  shanty. 
The  guides  bring  in  a  half-cooked  breakfast.  The 
roof  is  patched  up.  There  are  reviving  signs  of 


CAMPING   OUT.  145 


breaking  away,  delusive  signs  that  create  mo 
mentary  exhilaration.  Even  if  the  storm  clears, 
the  woods  are  soaked.  There  is  no  chance  of 
stirring.  The  world  is  only  ten  feet  square. 

This  life,  without  responsibility  or  clean  clothes, 
may  continue  as  long  as  the  reader  desires. 
There  are  those  who  would  like  to  live  in  this  free 
fashion  forever,  taking  rain  and  sun  as  heaven 
pleases  ;  and  there  are  some  souls  so  constituted 
that  they  cannot  exist  more  than  three  da}Ts  with 
out  their  worldly  baggage.  Taking  the  party 
altogether,  from  one  cause  or  another  it  is  likely 
to  strike  camp  sooner  than  was  intended.  And 
the  stricken  camp  is  a  melancholy  sight.  The 
woods  have  been  despoiled  ;  the  stumps  are  ugly  ; 
the  bushes  are  scorched ;  the  pine-leaf-strewn 
earth  is  trodden  into  mire  ;  the  landing  looks  like 
a  cattle-ford ;  the  ground  is  littered  with  all  the 
unsightly  debris  of  a  hand-to-hand  life  ;  the  dis 
mantled  shanty  is  a  shabby  object ;  the  charred 
and  blackened  logs,  where  the  fire  blazed,  sug 
gest  the  extinction  of  family  life.  Man  has 
wrought  his  usual  wrong  upon  Nature,  and  he  can 


146  7^   THE  WILDERNESS. 

save  his  self-respect  only  by  moving  to  virgin 
forests. 

And  move  to  them  he  will,  the  next  season,  if 
not  this.  For  he  who  has  once  experienced  the 
fascination  of  the  woods-life  never  escapes  its  en 
ticement  :  in  the  memory  nothing  remains  but  its 
charm. 


HOW  SPRING  CAME  IN  NEW  ENGLAND. 


'74. 
HOW  SPRING  CAME  IN  NEW  ENGLAND, 

BY  A  HEADER  OF  '"93." 


]EW  ENGLAND  is  the  battle-ground  of 
the  seasons.  It  is  La  Vendee.  To 
conquer  it  is  only  to  begin  the  fight. 
When  it  is  completely  subdued,  what  kind  of 
weather  have  }'ou?  None  whatever. 

What  is  this  New  England  ?  A  country  ?  No  : 
a  camp.  It  is  alternately  invaded  by  the  hyper 
borean  legions  and  by  the  wilting  sirens  of  the 
tropics.  Icicles  hang  always  on  its  northern 
heights  ;  its  seacoasts  are  fringed  with  mosquitoes. 
There  is  for  a  third  of  the  year  a  contest  between 
the  icy  air  of  the  pole  and  the  warm  wind  of  the 
gulf.  The  result  of  this  is  a  compromise :  the 

149 


150    HOW  SPRING  CAME  IN  NEW  ENGLAND. 

compromise  is  called  Thaw.  It  is  the  normal 
condition  in  New  England.  The  New-Englander 
is  a  person  who  is  always  just  about  to  be  warm 
and  comfortable.  This  is  the  stuff  of  which 
heroes  and  martyrs  are  made.  A  person  thor 
oughly  heated  or  frozen  is  good  for  nothing. 
Look  at  the  Bongos.  Examine  (on  the  map)  the 
Dog-Rib  nation.  The  New-Englander,  by  in 
cessant  activity,  hopes  to  get  warm.  Edwards 
made  his  theology.  Thank  God,  New  England 
is  not  in  Paris  ! 

Hudson's  Bay,  Labrador,  Grinnell's  Land,  a 
whole  zone  of  ice  and  walruses,  make  it  un 
pleasant  for  New  England.  This  icy  cover,  like 
the  lid  of  a  pot,  is  always  suspended  over  it: 
when  it  shuts  down,  that  is  winter.  This  would 
be  intolerable,  were  it  not  for  the  Gulf  Stream. 
The  Gulf  Stream  is  a  benign,  liquid  force,  flow 
ing  from  under  the  ribs  of  the  equator,  —  a  white 
knight  of  the  South  going  up  to  battle  the  giant 
of  the  North.  The  two  meet  in  New  England, 
and  have  it  out  there. 

This   is   the   theory ;    but,  in   fact,  the   Gulf 


HOW  SPRING  CAME  IN  NEW  ENGLAND.    1  )1 

Stream  is  mostly  a  delusion  as  to  New  England. 
For  Ireland  it  is  quite  another  thing.  Potatoes 
ripen  in  Ireland  before  they  are  planted  in  New 
England.  That  is  the  reason  the  Irish  emigrate  : 
the}7  desire  two  crops  the  same  }^ear.  The  Gulf 
Stream  gets  shunted  off  from  New  England  by 
the  formation  of  the  coast  below  :  besides,  it  is 
too  shallow  to  be  of  any  service.  Icebergs  float 
down  against  its  surface-current,  and  fill  all  the 
New-England  air  with  the  chill  of  death  till 
June  :  after  that  the  fogs  drift  down  from  New 
foundland.  There  never  was  such  a  mockery  as 
this  Gulf  Stream.  It  is  like  the  English  influ 
ence  on  France,  on  Europe.  Pitt  was  an  ice 
berg. 

Still  New  England  survives.  To  what  pur 
pose?  I  say,  as  an  example:  the  politician 
says,  to  produce  "Poor  Boys."  Bah!  The  poor 
bo}'  is  an  anachronism  in  civilization.  He  is  no 
longer  poor,  and  he  is  not  a  boy.  In  Tartary 
they  would  hang  him  for  sucking  all  the  asses' 
milk  that  belongs  to  the  children  :  in  New  Eng 
land  he  has  all  the  cream  from  the  Public  Cew 


(  JiTIVERSITY  J 


152    nOW  SPRING  CAME  IN  NEW  ENGLAND. 

What  can  you  expect  in  a  country  where  one 
knows  not  to-day  what  the  weather  will  be  to 
morrow?  Climate  makes  the  man.  Suppose  he, 
too,  dwells  on  the  Channel  Islands,  where  he  has 
all  climates,  and  is  superior  to  all.  Perhaps  he 
will  become  the  prophet,  the  seer,  of  his  age,  as 
he  is  its  Poet.  The  New-Englander  is  the  man 
without  a  climate.  Why  is  his  country  recog 
nized?  You  won't  find  it  on  any  map  of  Paris. 

And  yet  Paris  is  the  universe.  Strange  anom- 
oly !  The  greater  must  include  the  less ;  but 
how  if  the  less  leaks  out?  This  sometimes  hap 
pens. 

And  yet  there  are  phenomena  in  that  country 
worth  observing.  One  of  them  is  the  conduct  of 
Nature  from  the  1st  of  March  to  the  1st  of  June, 
or,  as  some  say,  from  the  vernal  equinox  to  the 
summer  solstice.  As  Tourmalain  remarked, 
"  You'd  better  observe  the  unpleasant  than  to 
be  blind."  This  was  in  802.  Tourmalain  is 
dead  ;  so  is  Gross  Alain  ;  so  is  little  Pee  -Wee  : 
we  shall  all  be  dead  before  things  get  any 
better. 


nOW  SPRING  CAME  IN  NEW  ENGLAND.    153 

That  is  the  law.  Without  revolution  there  is 
nothing.  What  is  revolution?  It  is  turning 
society  over,  and  putting  the  best  underground 
for  a  fertilizer.  Thus  only  will  things  grow. 
What  has  this  to  do  with  New  England  ?  In  the 
language  of  that  flash  of  social  lightning,  Beran- 
ger,  ' '  May  the  Devil  fly  away  with  me  if  I  can 
see!  " 

Let  us  speak  of  the  period  in  the  }'ear  in  New 
England  when  winter  appears  to  hesitate.  Ex 
cept  in  the  calendar,  the  action  is  ironical ;  but  it 
is  still  deceptive.  The  sun  mounts  high :  it  is 
above  the  horizon  twelve  hours  at  a  time.  The 
snow  gradually  sneaks  away  in  liquid  repentance. 
One  morning  it  is  gone,  except  in  shaded  spots 
and  close  by  the  fences.  From  about  the  trunks 
of  the  trees  it  has  long  departed :  the  tree  is  a 
living  thing,  and  its  growth  repels  it.  The  fence 
is  dead,  driven  into  the  earth  in  a  rigid  line  by 
man :  the  fence,  in  short,  is  dogma :  icy  preju 
dice  lingers  near  it. 

The  snow  has  disappeared ;  but  the  landscape 
is  a  ghastly  sight,  —  bleached,  dead.  The  trees 


154    HOW  SPRING  CAME  IN  NEW  ENGLAND. 

are  stakes  ;  the  grass  is  of  no  color ;  and  the 
bare  soil  is  not  brown  with  a  healthful  brown ; 
life  has  gone  out  of  it.  Take  up  a  piece  of  turf: 
it  is  a  clod,  without  warmth,  inanimate.  Pull  it 
in  pieces  :  there  is  no  hope  in  it :  it  is  a  part  of 
the  past ;  it  is  the  refuse  of  last  year.  This  is 
the  condition  to  which  winter  has  reduced  the 
landscape.  When  the  snow,  which  was  a  pall, 
is  removed,  you  see  how  ghastly  it  is.  The  face 
of  the  country  is  sodden.  It  needs  now  only  the 
south  wind  to  sweep  over  it,  full  of  the  damp 
breath  of  death ;  and  that  begins  to  blow.  No 
prospect  would  be  more  dreary. 

And  yet  the  south  wind  fills  credulous  man 
with  joy.  He  opens  the  window.  He  goes  out, 
and  catches  cold.  He  is  stirred  by  the  mysteri 
ous  coming  of  something.  If  there  is  sign  of 
change  nowhere  else,  we  detect  it  in  the  news 
paper.  In  sheltered  corners  of  that  truculent 
instrument  for  the  diffusion  of  the  prejudices  of 
the  few  among  the  many  begin  to  grow  the 
violets  of  tender  sentiment,  the  earl}7  greens  of 
yearning.  The  poet  feels  the  sap  of  the  new 


SPRING  CAME  IN  NEW  ENGLAND.    1  55 

year  before  the  marsh- willow.  He  blossoms  in 
advance  of  the  catkins.  Man  is  greater  than 
Nature.  The  poet  is  greater  than  man:  he  is 
nature  on  two  legs,  —  ambulatory. 

At  first  there  is  no  appearance  of  conflict. 
The  winter  garrison  seems  to  have  withdrawn. 
The  invading  hosts  of  the  South  are  entering 
without  opposition.  The  hard  ground  softens  ; 
the  sun  lies  warm  upon  the  southern  bank,  and 
water  oozes  from  its  base.  If  you  examine  the 
buds  of  the  lilac  and  the  flowering  shrubs,  you 
cannot  say  that  they  are  swelling ;  but  the  var 
nish  with  whicn  they  were  coated  in  the  fall  to 
keep  out  the  frost  seems  to  be  cracking.  If 
the  sugar-maple  is  hacked,  it  will  bleed, — the 
pure  white  blood  of  Nature. 

At  the  close  of  a  sunny  day  the  western  sky 
has  a  softened  aspect :  its  color,  we  say,  has 
warmth  in  it.  On  such  a  day  you  may  meet  a 
caterpillar  on  the  footpath,  and  turn  out  for  him. 
The  house-fly  thaws  out ;  a  company  of  cheerful 
wasps  take  possession  of  a  chamber-window.  It 
is  oppressive  indoors  at  night,  and  the  window 


156    HOW  SPRING  CAME  IN  NEW  ENGLAND. 

is  raised.  A  flock  of  millers,  born  out  of  time, 
flutter  in.  It  is  most  unusual  weather  for  the 
season:  it  is  so  every  year.  The  delusion  is 
complete,  when,  on  a  mild  evening,  the  tree- 
toads  open  their  brittle-brattle  chorus  on  the  edge 
of  the  pond.  The  citizen  asks  his  neighbor, 
"Did  you  hear  the  frogs  last  night?"  That 
seems  to  open  the  new  world.  One  thinks  of  his 
childhood  and  its  innocence,  and  of  his  first  loves. 
It  fills  one  with  sentiment  and  a  tender  longing, 
this  voice  of  the  tree-toad.  Man  is  a  strange 
being.  Deaf  to  the  prayers  of  friends,  to  the 
sermons  and  warnings  of  the  church,  to  the  calls 
of  duty,  to  the  pleadings  of  his  better  nature,  he 
is  touched  by  the  tree-toad.  The  signs  of  the 
spring  multiply.  The  passer  in  the  street  in 
the  evening  sees  the  maid-servant  leaning  on  the 
area-gate  in  sweet  converse  with  some  one  lean 
ing  on  the  other  side  ;  or  in  the  park,  which  is 
still  too  damp  for  any  thing  but  true  affection,  he 
sees  her  seated  by  the  side  of  one  who  is  able  to 
protect  her  from  the  policeman,  and  hears  her 
sigh,  u  How  sweet  it  is  to  be  with  those  we  love 
to  be  with!  " 


nO W  SPRING  CAME  IN  NEW  ENGLAND.    157 

All  this  is  ver}'  well ;  but  next  morning  the 
newspaper  nips  these  early  buds  of  sentiment. 
The  telegraph  announces,  "  Twent}'  feet  of  snow 
at  Ogden,  on  the  Pacific  Road ;  winds  blowing  a 
gale  at  Omaha,  and  snow  still  falling;  mercury 
frozen  at  Duluth  ;  storm-signals  at  Port  Huron." 

Where  now  are  your  tree-toads,  your  young 
love,  your  early  season?  Before  noon  it  rains; 
by  three  o'clock  it  hails ;  before  night  the  bleak 
storm-cloud  of  the  north-west  envelops  the  sky  ; 
a  gale  is  raging,  whirling  about  a  tempest  of 
snow.  B}r  morning  the  snow  is  drifted  in  banks, 
and  two  feet  deep  on  a  level.  Early  in  the  seven 
teenth  century,  Drebbel  of  Holland  invented  the 
weather-glass.  Before  that,  men  had  suffered 
without  knowing  the  degree  of  their  suffering. 
A  century  later,  Homer  hit  upon  the  idea  of 
using  mercury  in  a  thermometer  ;  and  Fahrenheit 
constructed  the  instrument  which  adds  a  new 
because  distinct  terror  to  the  weather.  Science 
names  and  registers  the  ills  of  life  ;  and  yet  it  is 
a  gain  to  know  the  names  and  habits  of  our  ene 
mies.  It  is  with  some  satisfaction  in  our  knowl 
edge  that  we  say  the  thermometer  marks  zero. 


158    HOW  SPRING  CAME  IN  NEW  ENGLAND. 

In  fact,  the  wild  beast  called  Winter,  untamed, 
has  returned,  and  taken  possession  of  New  Eng  - 
land.  Nature,  giving  up  her  melting  mood,  has 
retired  into  dumbness  and  white  stagnation.  But 
we  are  wise.  We  say  it  is  better  to  have  it  now 
than  later.  We  have  a  conceit  of  understanding 
things. 

Extraordinary  blindness ! 

The  sun  is  in  alliance  with  the  earth.  Between 
the  two  the  snow  is  uncomfortable.  Compelled 
to  go,  it  decides  to  go  suddenly.  The  first  day 
there  is  slush  with  rain ;  the  second  day,  mud 
with  hail ;  the  third  day,  a  flood  with  sunshine. 
The  thermometer  declares  that  the  temperature  is 
delightful.  Man  shivers  and  sneezes.  His  neigh 
bor  dies  of  some  disease  newly  named  by  science  ; 
but  he  dies  all  the  same  as  if  it  hadn't  been  newl}* 
named.  Science  has  not  discovered  any  name 
that  is  not  fatal. 

This  is  called  the  breaking-up  of  winter. 

Nature  seems  for  some  days  to  be  in  doubt, 
not  exactly  able  to  stand  still,  not  daring  to  put 
forth  any  thing  tender.  Man  says  that  the  worst 


HOW  SPUING  CAME  IN  NEW  ENGLAND.    159 

is  over.  If  he  should  live  a  thousand  years,  he 
would  be  deceived  ever}'  year.  And  this  is  called 
an  age  of  scepticism.  Man  never  believed  in  so 
many  things  as  now  :  he  never  believed  so  much 
in  himself.  As  to  Nature,  he  knows  her  secrets : 
he  can  predict  what  she  will  do.  He  communi 
cates  with  the  next  world  by  means  of  an  alpha 
bet  which  he  has  invented.  He  talks  with  souls 
at  the  other  end  of  the  spirit-wire.  To  be  sure, 
neither  of  them  says  any  thing ;  but  they  talk. 
Is  not  that  something  ?  He  suspends  the  law  of 
gravitation  as  to  his  own  bod}'  —  he  has  learned 
how  to  evade  it  —  as  t3Tants  suspend  the  legal 
writs  of  habeas  corpus.  When  Gravitation  asks 
for  his  body,  she  cannot  have  it.  He  says  of 
himself,  "  I  am  infallible;  I  am  sublime."  He 
believes  all  these  things.  He  is  master  of  the 
elements.  Shakspeare  sends  him  a  poem  just 
made,  and  as  good  a  poem  as  the  man  could 
write  himself.  And  yet  this  man  —  he  goes  out 
of  doors  without  his  overcoat,  catches  cold,  and 
is  buried  in  three  days.  "On  the  21st  of  Janu 
ary,"  exclaimed  Mercier,  "  all  kings  felt  for  the 


1GO    HOW  SPRING  CAME  IN  NEW  ENGLAND. 

backs  of  their  necks."  This  might  be  said  of 
all  men  in  New  England  in  the  spring.  This  is 
the  season  that  all  the  poets  celebrate.  Let  us 
suppose  that  once,  in  Thessaly,  there  was  a  genial 
spring,  and  there  was  a  poet  who  sang  of  it.  All 
later  poets  have  sung  the  same  song.  "  Voila 
tout!  *'  That  is  the  root  of  poetr}T. 

Another  delusion.  We  hear  toward  evening, 
high  in  air,  the  "conk"  of  the  wild-geese. 
Looking  up,  you  see  the  black  specks  of  that 
adventurous  triangle,  winging  along  in  rapid 
flight  northward.  Perhaps  it  takes  a  wide  re 
turning  sweep,  in  doubt ;  but  it  disappears  in  the 
north.  There  is  no  mistaking  that  sign.  This 
unmusical  "conk"  is  sweeter  than  the  "ker 
chunk"  of  the  bull-frog.  Probably  these  birds 
are  not  idiots,  and  probably  they  turned  back 
south  again  after  spying  out  the  nakedness  of 
the  land  ;  but  they  have  made  their  sign.  Next 
day  there  is  a  rumor  that  somebody  has  seen  a 
blue-bird.  This  rumor,  unhappily  for  the  bird 
(which  will  freeze  to  death) ,  is  confirmed.  In 
less  than  three  days  everybody  has  seen  a  blue- 


SPUING  CAME  IN  NEW  ENGLAND.    161 

bird  ;  and  favored  people  have  heard  a  robin,  or 
rather  the  3~ellow-breasted  thrush,  misnamed  a 
robin  in  America.  This  is  no  doubt  true :  for 
angle-worms  have  been  seen  on  the  surface  of  the 
ground  ;  and,  wherever  there  is  any  thing  to  eat, 
the  robin  is  promptly  on  hand.  About  this  time 
}'ou  notice,  in  protected,  sunny  spots,  that  the 
grass  has  a  little  color.  But  you  sa}T  that  it  is 
the  grass  of  last  fall.  It  is  very  difficult  to  tell 
when  the  grass  of  last  fall  became  the  grass  of 
this  spring.  It  looks  "  warmed  over."  The 
green  is  rust}7.  The  lilac-buds  have  certainly 
swollen  a  little,  and  so  have  those  of  the  soft 
maple.  In  the  rain  the  grass  does  not  brighten 
as  3*ou  think  it  ought  to,  and  it  is  only  when  the 
rain  turns  to  snow  that  you  see  any  decided  green 
color  by  contrast  with  the  white.  The  snow 
gradually  covers  ever}'  thing  very  quietly,  how 
ever.  Winter  comes  back  without  the  least  noise 
or  bustle,  tireless,  malicious,  implacable.  Neither 
party  in  the  fight  now  makes  much  fuss  over  it ; 
and  you  might  think  that  Nature  had  surrendered 
altogether,  if  you  did  not  find  about  this  time, 


162    HOW  SPfilNG  CAME  IN  NEW  ENGLAND. 

in  the  woods,  on  the  edge  of  a  snow-bank,  the 
modest  blossoms  of  the  trailing  arbutus,  shedding 
their  delicious  perfume.  The  bravest  are  alwa}  s 
the  tenderest,  says  the  poet.  The  season,  in  its 
blind  way,  is  trying  to  express  itself. 

And  it  is  assisted.  There  is  a  cheerful  chatter 
in  the  trees.  The  blackbirds  have  come,  and  in 
numbers,  households  of  them,  villages  of  them, 
—  communes,  rather.  The}7  do  not  believe  in 
God,  these  blackbirds.  They  think  they  can 
take  care  of  themselves.  We  shall  see.  But 
they  are  well  informed.  They  arrived  just  as  the 
last  snow-bank  melted.  One  cannot  say  now 
that  there  is  not  greenness  in  the  grass ;  not  in 
the  wide  fields,  to  be  sure,  but  on  lawns  and 
banks  sloping  south.  The  dark-spotted  leaves 
of  the  dog-tooth  violet  begin  to  show.  Even 
Fahrenheit's  contrivance  joins  in  the  upward 
movement :  the  mercury  has  suddenly  gone  up 
from  thirty  degrees  to  sixty-five  degrees.  It  is 
time  for  the  ice-man.  Ice  has  no  sooner  disap 
peared  than  we  desire  it. 

There  is  a  smile,  if  one  may  say  so,  in  the 


HOW  SPRING  CAME  IN  NEW  ENGLAND.     IG3 

blue  sk}-,  and  there  is  softness  in  the  south  wind. 
The  song-sparrow  is  singing  in  the  apple-tree. 
Another  bird-note  is  heard,  —  two  long,  musical 
whistles,  liquid  but  metallic.  A  brown  bird  this 
one,  darker  than  the  song-sparrow,  and  without 
the  latter's  light  stripes,  and  smaller,  yet  bigger 
than  the  queer  little  chipping-bird .  He  wants  a 
familiar  name,  this  sweet  singer,  who  appears  to 
be  a  sort  of  sparrow.  He  is  such  a  contrast  to 
the  blue-jays,  who  have  arrived  in  a  passion, 
as  usual,  screaming  and  scolding,  the  elegant, 
spoiled  beauties !  They  wrangle  from  morning 
till  night,  these  beautiful,  high-tempered  aristo 
crats. 

Encouraged  by  the  birds,  by  the  bursting  of 
the  lilac-buds,  by  the  peeping-up  of  the  crocuses, 
by  tradition,  by  the  sweet  flutterings  of  a  double 
hope,  another  sign  appears.  This  is  the  Easter 
bonnets,  most  delightful  flowers  of  the  year, 
emblems  of  innocence,  hope,  devotion.  Alas 
that  they  have  to  be  worn  under  umbrellas,  so 
much  thought,  freshness,  feeling,  tenderness, 
have  gone  into  them!  And  a  north-cast  storm 


164.    HOW  SPRING  CAME  IN  NEW  ENGLAND. 

of  rain,  accompanied  with  hail,  comes  to  crown 
Jill  these  virtues  with  that  of  self-sacrifice.  The 
frail  hat  is  offered  up  to  the  implacable  season. 
In  fact,  Nature  is  not  to  be  forestalled  nor  hur- 
lied  in  this  way.  Things  cannot  be  pushed. 
Nature  hesitates.  The  woman  who  does  not 
hesitate  in  April  is  lost.  The  appearance  of  the 
bonnets  is  premature.  The  blackbirds  see  it. 
They  assemble.  For  two  days  they  hold  a  noisy 
convention,  with  high  debate,  in  the  tree-tops. 
Something  is  going  to  happen. 

Say,  rather,  the  usual  thing  is  about  to  occur. 
There  is  a  wind  called  Auster,  another  called 
Eurus,  another  called  Scptentrio,  another  Me- 
ridies,  besides  Aquilo,  Vulturnus,  Africus. 
There  are  the  eight  great  winds  of  the  classical 
dictionary,  —  arsenal  of  mystery  and  terror  and 
of  the  unknown, — besides  the  wind  Euroaquilo 
of  St.  Luke.  This  is  the  wind  that  drives  an 
apostle  wishing  to  gain  Crete  upon  the  African 
Syrtis.  If  St.  Luke  had  been  tacking  to  get  to 
Hyannis,  this  wind  would  have  forced  him  into 
Ilolrnes's  Hole.  The  Euroaquilo  is  no  respecter 
of  persons. 


HOW  SPRING  CAME  IN  NEW  ENGLAND.    1G5 

These  winds,  and  others  unnamed  and  more 
terrible,  circle  about  New  England.  The}'  form 
a  ring  about  it :  they  lie  in  wait  on  its  borders, 
but  only  to  spring  upon  it  and  harry  it.  They 
follow  each  other  in  contracting  circles,  in  whirl 
winds,  in  maelstroms  of  the  atmosphere :  they 
meet  and  cross  each  other,  all  at  a  moment. 
This  New  England  is  set  apart :  it  is  the  exer 
cise-ground  of  the  weather.  Storms  bred  else 
where  come  here  full-grown:  they  come  in 
couples,  in  quartets,  in  choruses.  If  New  Eng 
land  were  not  mostly  rock,  these  winds  would 
carry  it  off;  but  they  would  bring  it  all  back 
again,  as  happens  with  the  sandy  portions.  What 
sharp  Eurus  carries  to  Jersey,  Africus  brings 
back.  When  the  air  is  not  full  of  snow,  it  is  full 
of  dust.  This  is  called  one  of  the  compensations 
of  Nature. 

This  is  what  happened  after  the  convention  of 
the  blackbirds :  A  moaning  south  wind  brought 
rain  ;  a  south-west  wind  turned  the  rain  to  snow  ; 
what  is  called  a  zephyr,  out  of  the  west,  drifted 
the  snow ;  a  north  wind  sent  the  mercury  lac 


160    TIO W  SPRING  CAME  IN  NEW  ENGLAND. 

below  freezing.  Salt  added  to  snow  increases 
the  evaporation  and  the  cold.  This  was  the 
office  of  the  north-east  wind :  it  made  the  snow 
damp,  and  increased  its  bulk  ;  but  then  it  rained 
a  little,  and  froze,  thawing  at  the  same  tin  e. 
The  air  was  full  of  fog  and  snow  and  rain. 
And  then  the  wind  changed,  went  back  round 
the  circle,  reversing  every  thing,  like  dragging  a 
cat  by  its  tail.  The  mercury  approached  zero. 
This  was  nothing  uncommon.  "We  know  all  these 
winds.  We  are  familiar  with  the  different  "  forms 
of  water." 

All  this  was  only  the  prologue,  the  overture. 
If  one  might  be  permitted  to  speak  scientifically, 
it  was  only  the  tuning  of  the  instruments.  The 
opera  was  to  come,  —  the  Flying  Dutchman  of 
the  air. 

There  is  a  wind  called  Euroclydon :  it  would 
be  one  of  the  Eumenides  ;  only  they  are  women. 
It  is  half-brother  to  the  gigantic  storm- wind  of 
the  equinox.  The  Euroclydon  is  not  a  wind  :  it 
is  a  monster.  Its  breath  is  frost.  It  has  snow 
in  its  hair.  It  is  something  terrible.  It  peddles 
rheumatism,  and  plants  consumption. 


HOW  SPRING  CAME  IN  NEW  ENGLAND.    1G7 

The  Euroch'don  knew  just  the  moment  to  strike 
into  the  discord  of  the  weather  in  New  England. 
From  its  lair  about  Point  Desolation,  from  the 
glaciers  of  the  Greenland  continent,  sweeping 
round  the  coast,  leaving  wrecks  in  its  track,  it 
marched  right  athwart  the  other  conflicting 
winds,  churning  them  into  a  fury,  and  inaugurat 
ing  chaos.  It  was  the  Marat  of  the  elements. 
It  was  the  revolution  marching  into  the  ; '  dreaded 
wood  of  La  Sandraie." 

Let  us  sum  it  all  up  in  one  word :  it  was  some 
thing  for  which  there  is  no  name. 

Its  track  was  destruction.  On  the  sea  it  leaves 
wrecks.  What  does  it  leave  on  land  ?  Funerals. 
When  it  subsides,  New  England  is  piDstrate.  It 
has  left  its  legacy:  this  legacy  is  coughs  and 
patent  medicines.  This  is  an  epic ;  this  is  des 
tiny.  You  think  Providence  is  expelled  out  of 
New  England  ?  Listen  ! 

Two  days  after  Euroclydon,  I  found  in  the 
woods  the  hepatica — earliest  of  wild  wood  flowers, 
evident^  not  intimidated  bjT  the  wild  work  of  the 
armies  trampling  over  New  England  —  daring  to 


168    HOW  SPRING  CAME  IN  NEW  ENGLAND. 

hold  up  its  tender  blossom.  One  could  not  but 
admire  the  quiet  pertinacity  of  Nature.  She  had 
been  painting  the  grass  under  the  snow.  In 
spots  it  was  vivid  green.  There  was  a  mild  rain, 
—  mild,  but  chilly.  The  clouds  gathered,  a  d 
broke  away  in  light,  fleecy  masses.  There  was 
a  softness  on  the  hills.  The  birds  suddenly 
were  on  every  tree,  glancing  through  the  air, 
filling  "it  with  song,  sometimes  shaking  rain-drops 
from  their  wings.  The  cat  brings  in  one  in  his 
mouth.  He  thinks  the  season  has  begun,  and 
the  game-laws  are  off.  He  is  fond  of  Nature, 
this  cat,  as  we  all  are :  he  wants  to  possess  it. 
At  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  there  is  a  grand 
dress-rehearsal  of  the  birds.  Not  all  the  pieces 
of  the  orchestra  have  arrived ;  but  there  are 
enough.  The  grass-sparrow  has  come.  This  is 
certainly  charming.  The  gardener  comes  to  talk 
about  seeds :  he  uncovers  the  strawberries  and 
the  grape-vines,  salts  the  asparagus-bed,  and 
plants  the  peas.  You  ask  if  he  planted  them 
with  a  shot-gun.  In  the  shade  there  is  still  frost 
in  the  ground.  Nature,  in  fact,  still  hesitates. 


110 W  SPRING  CAME  IN  NEW  ENGLAND.    1  J9 

puts  forth  one  hepatica  at  a  time,  and  waits  to 
see  the  result ;  pushes  up  the  grass  slowly,  per 
haps  draws  it  in  at  night. 

This  indecision  we  call  Spring. 

It  becomes  painful.  It  is  like  being  on  the 
rack  for  ninety  days,  expecting  ever3r  day  a  re 
prieve.  Men  grow  hardened  to  it,  however. 

This  is  the  order  with  man,  —  hope,  surprise, 
bewilderment,  disgust,  facetiousness.  The  peo 
ple  in  New  England  finally  become  facetious 
about  spring.  This  is  the  last  stage :  it  is  the 
most  dangerous.  When  a  man  has  come  to  make 
a  jest  of  misfortune,  he  is  lost.  "It  bores  me 
to  die,"  said  the  journalist  Carra  to  the  heads 
man  at  the  foot  of  the  guillotine  :  ' '  I  would  like 
to  have  seen  the  continuation."  One  is  also 
interested  to  see  how  spring  is  going  to  turn  out. 

A  day  of  sun,  of  delusive  bird-singing,  sight 
of  the  mellow  earth,  —  all  these  begin  to  beget 
confidence.  The  night,  even,  has  been  warm. 
But  what  is  this  in  the  morning  journal  at  break 
fast? —  "  An  area  of  low  pressure  is  moving  from 
the  Tortillas  north."  You  shudder. 


170    HOW  SPRING  CAME  IN  NEW  ENGLAND. 

What  is  this  Low  Pressure  itsdf, — it?  It  is 
something  frightful,  low,  crouching,  creeping, 
advancing ;  it  is  a  foreboding ;  it  is  misfortune 
by  telegraph  ;  it  is  the  "  '93  "  of  the  atmosphere. 

This  low  pressure  is  a  creation  of  Old  Prob 
What  is  that?  Old  Prob.  is  the  new  deity  of  the 
Americans,  greater  than  JEolus,  more  despotic 
than  Sans-Culotte.  The  wind  is  his  servitor,  the 
lightning  his  messenger.  He  is  a  mysterj'  made 
of  six  parts  electricit}T,  and  one  part  "guess." 
This  deit}r  is  worshipped  b}T  the  Americans ;  his 
name  is  on  every  man's  lips  first  in  the  morning ; 
he  is  the  Frankenstein  of  modern  science. 
Housed  at  Washington,  his  business  is  to  direct 
the  storms  of  the  whole  country  upon  New  Eng 
land,  and  to  giAre  notice  in  advance.  This  he 
does.  Sometimes  he  sends  the  storm,  and  then 
gives  notice.  This  is  mere  playfulness  on  his 
part :  it  is  all  one  to  him.  His  great  power  is  in 
the  low  pressure. 

On  the  Bexar  plains  of  Texas,  among  the  hills 
of  the  Presidio,  along  the  Rio  Grande,  low  press 
ure  is  bred ;  it  is  nursed  also  in  the  Atchafalaya 


HOW  SPnTXG  CAME  I2f  NEW  ENGLAND.    171 

swamps  of  Louisiana ;  it  moves  by  the  vray  of 
Thibodeaux  and  Bonnet  Carre.  The  south-west 
is  a  magazine  of  atmospheric  disasters.  Lo^ 
pressure  ma}T  be  no  worse  than  the  others  :  it  is 
better  known,  and  is  most  used  to  inspire  terror. 
It  can  be  summoned  any  time  also  from  the 
everglades  of  Florida,  from  the  morasses  of  the 
Okeechobee. 

When  the  New-Englander  sees  this  in  his 
newspaper,  he  knows  what  it  means.  He  has 
twenty-four  hours'  warning ;  but  wrhat  can  he 
do?  Nothing  but  watch  its  certain  advance  by 
telegraph.  He  suffers  in  anticipation.  That  is 
what  Old  Prob.  has  brought  about,  —  suffering 
by  anticipation.  This  low  pressure  advances 
against  the  wind.  The  wind  is  from  the  north 
east.  Nothing  could  be  more  unpleasant  than  a 
north-east  wind?  Wait  till  low  pressure  joins  it. 
Together  the}'  make  spring  in  New  England. 
A  north-cast  storm  from  the  south-west !  —  there 
is  no  bitterer  satire-  than  this.  It  lasts  three 
days.  After  that  the  weather  changes  into  some 
thing  winter-like. 


172    HO  W  SPRING  CA3IE  IN  NEW  ENGLAND. 

A  solitary  song-sparrow,  without  a  note  of  joy, 
hops  along  the  snow  to  the  dining-room  window, 
and,  turning  his  little  head  aside,  looks  up.  He 
is  hungry  and  cold.  Little  Minnette,  clasping 
her  hands  behind  her  back,  stands  and  looks  at 
him,  and  says,  "Po'  birdie!"  They  appear  to 
understand  each  other.  The  sparrow  gets  his 
crumbs  ;  but  he  knows  too  much  to  let  Minnette 
get  hold  of  him.  Neither  of  these  little  things 
could  take  care  of  itself  in  a  New-England  spring 
—  not  in  the  depths  of  it.  This  is  what  the 
father  of  Minnette,  looking  out  of  the  window 
upon  the  wide  waste  of  snow,  and  the  evergreens 
bent  to  the  ground  with  the  weight  of  it,  says, 
"It  looks  like  the  depths  of  spring."  To  this 
has  man  come  :  to  his  facctiousness  has  succeeded 
sarcasm.  It  is  the  first  of  May. 

Then  follows  a  day  of  bright  sun  and  blue  sky. 
The  birds  open  the  morning  with  a  lively  chorus. 
In  spite  of  Auster,  Euroch'don,  low  pressure, 
and  the  government  bureau,  things  have  gone 
forward.  By  the  roadside,  where  the  snow  has 
just  melted,  the  grass  is  of  the  color  of  emerald 


HOW  SPRING  CAME  IN  NEW  ENGLAND.    173 

The  heart  leaps  to  see  it.  On  the  lawn  there  are 
twenty  robins,  lively,  noisy,  worm-seeking.  Their 
3Tellow  breasts  contrast  with  the  tender  green  of 
the  newly-springing  clover  and  herd's-grass.  If 
the}*  would  only  stand  still,  we  might  think  the 
dandelions  had  blossomed.  On  an  evergreen- 
bough,  looking  at  them,  sits  a  graceful  bird, 
whose  back  is  bluer  than  the  sky.  There  is  a  red 
tint  on  the  tips  of  the  boughs  of  the  hard  maple. 
With  Nature,  color  is  life.  See,  already,  green, 
3'ellow,  blue,  red  !  In  a  few  da}'s  —  is  it  not  so? 
—  through  the  green  masses  of  the  trees  will 
flash  the  orange  of  the  oriole,  the  scarlet  of  the 
tanager ;  perhaps  to-morrow. 

But,  in  fact,  the  next  day  opens  a  little  sourly. 
It  is  almost  clear  overhead :  but  the  clouds 
thicken  on  the  horizon ;  they  look  leaden ;  they 
threaten  rain.  It  certainly  will  rain :  the  air 
feels  like  rain,  or  snow.  By  noon  it  begins  to 
snow,  and  you  hear  the  desolate  cry  of  the 
phoebe-bird.  It  is  a  fine  snow,  gentle  at  first ; 
but  it  soon  drives  in  swerving  lines,  for  the  wind 
is  from  the  south-west,  from  the  west,  from  the 


174    HOW  SPRING  CAME  IN  NEW  ENGLAND. 

north-east,  from  the  zenith  (one  of  the  ordinary 
winds  of  New  England) ,  from  all  points  of  the 
compass.  The  fine  snow  becomes  rain ;  it  be 
comes  large  snow  ;  it  melts  as  it  falls  ;  it  freezes 
as  it  falls.  At  last  a  storm  sets  in,  and  nig"; it 
shuts  down  upon  the  bleak  scene. 

During  the  night  there  is  a  change.  It  thun 
ders  and  lightens.  Toward  morning  there  is  a 
brilliant  display  of  aurora  borealis.  This  is  a 
sign  of  colder  weather. 

The  gardener  is  in  despair ;  so  is  the  sports 
man.  The  trout  take  no  pleasure  in  biting  in 
such  weather.  Paragraphs  appear  in  the  news 
papers,  copied  from  the  paper  of  last  3-ear,  say 
ing  that  this  is  the  most  severe  spring  in  thirty 
years.  Every  one,  in  fact,  believes  that  it  is, 
and  also  that  next  year  the  spring  will  be  early. 
Man  is  the  most  gullible  of  creatures. 

And  with  reason :  he  trusts  his  eyes,  and  not 
his  instinct.  During  this  most  sour  weather  of 
the  year,  the  anemone  blossoms  ;  and,  almost 
immediately  after,  the  fairy  pencil,  the  spring 
beauty,  the  dog-tooth  violet,  and  the  true  violet. 


no W  SPUING  CAME  IN  NEW  ENGLAND.    17* 

In  clouds  and  fog,  and  rain  and  snow,  and  all 
discouragement,  Nature  pushes  on  her  forces 
with  progressive  haste  and  rapidity.  Before  one 
is  aware,  all  the  lawns  and  meadows  are  deeply 
green,  the  trees  are  opening  their  tender  leaves. 
In  a  burst  of  sunshine  the  cheny-trees  are  white, 
the  Judas-tree  is  pink,  the  hawthorns  give  a 
sweet  smell.  The  air  is  full  of  sweetness ;  the 
world,  of  color. 

In  the  midst  of  a  chilling  north-east  storm  the 
ground  is  strewed  with  the  white-and-pink  blos 
soms  from  the  apple-trees.  The  next  day  the 
mercury  stands  at  eighty  degrees.  Summer  has 
come. 

There  was  no  Spring. 

The  winter  is  over.  You  think  so?  Robes 
pierre  thought  the  Revolution  was  over  in  the 
beginning  of  his  last  Thermidor.  He  lost  his 
head  after  that. 

When  the  first  buds  are  set,  and  the  corn  is 
up,  and  the  cucumbers  have  four  leaves,  a  mali 
cious  frost  steals  down  from  the  north  and  kills 
them  in  a  night. 


17G    IIO W  SPRING  CAME  IN  NEW  ENGLAND. 

That  is  the  last  effort  of  spring.  The  mercury 
then  mounts  to  ninety  degrees.  The  season  has 
.been  long,  but,  on  the  whole,  successful.  Many 
people  survive  it. 


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